AND  COMMON  SENSE 

ROYAL  CORT1SSOZ 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 
Getty  Research  Institute 


https://archive.org/details/artcommonsenseOOcort_O 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


By  Royal  Cortissoz 

Author  of  “John  La  Farge:  A Memoir  and  a Study,”  “Augustus 
Saint-Gaudens,”  etc. 


New  York 

Charles  Scribner’s  Sons 


MCMXIII 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 


Published  October,  1913 


E.  H.  C. 


Contents 


PAGE 

I.  Art  and  Common  Sense i 

II.  Ingres:  A Pilgrimage  to  Montauban  ...  23 

III.  The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 47 

I.  THE  OLD  TRADITION  AND  THE  NEW  ...  49 

II.  REMBRANDT 53 

HI.  HALS 60 

IV.  VERMEER  OF  DELFT 64 

V.  CHARDIN  AND  ALFRED  STEVENS  . . . 71 

IV.  Contemporary  European  Painting  ....  79 

V.  A Note  on  French  Military  Painting  . . .115 

VI.  The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion  . . . .123 

VII.  A Memorable  Exhibition 139 

VIII.  Whistler 179 

IX.  Sargent 217 

X.  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  . . . 247 

I.  THE  PRADO 249 

n.  THE  PRADO  REVISITED 276 

HI.  VELASQUEZ  AT  THE  HISPANIC  MUSEUM  . . 288 

IV.  THE  ROKEBY  VENUS 293 

V.  EL  GRECO  AND  GOYA 3OO 

VI.  FOUR  MODERN  SPANIARDS:  FORTUNY,  SOROLLA, 

ZULOAGA,  AND  DANIEL  VIERGE  . . . 304 

vii 


viii  Contents 


PAGE 

XI.  Secular  Types  in  Italian  Mural  Decoration  . 335 

I.  PINTORICCHIO 337 

II.  GHIRLANDAJO 346 

III.  CARPACCIO 3SI 

IV.  TIEPOLO 355 

XII.  Rodin 363 

XIII.  Four  Leaders  in  American  Architecture  . .379 

I.  H.  H.  RICHARDSON 384 

II.  RICHARD  MORRIS  HUNT 390 

III.  CHARLES  F.  MCKIM 4OO 

TV.  DANIEL  H.  BURNHAM 42 1 

XIV.  J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector  . . .433 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


I 


ART  AND  COMMON  SENSE 

There  are  some  impenetrable  mysteries  about  a 
great  work  of  art.  The  creative  impulse  behind  it, 
the  skill  of  eye  and  hand  indispensable  to  its  making, 
its  strange  garment  of  style  — which  is  doubly  strange 
because  it  proclaims  both  the  individuality  of  the 
artist  and  the  indefinable  tie  of  distinction  binding  all 
the  masterpieces  of  all  the  arts  together  in  a common 
glory  — who  shall  designate  the  origin  of  these  things 
or  dogmatize  about  the  processes  whereby  genius 
makes  them  do  its  bidding?  Genius  itself  cannot 
read  the  riddle.  But  so  long  as  men  care  for  art  they 
will  go  on  talking  about  it,  as  they  have  been  talking 
about  it  since  art  began,  for  there  is  no  greater  happi- 
ness than  that  which  is  to  be  found  in  disinterested 
talk  about  the  things  of  the  mind.  Whether  we  get 
any  forrader  or  not  — and  in  spite  of  the  mysteries 
there  is  always  progress  to  be  made  in  this  elusive 
subject  — depends  altogether  upon  just  that  point, 
whether  we  are  disinterested  or  not.  Everything  lies 
in  the  method  of  approach  and  there,  I think,  is  the 
source  of  much  of  the  confusion  prevalent  to-day,  the 
explanation  of  certain  errors  characteristic  of  many 


3 


4 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


artists  and  of  certain  misunderstandings  and  bewilder- 
ments often  leading  the  public  astray. 

We  hear  a great  deal  about  the  artist’s  point  of 
view  and  the  necessity  for  the  layman’s  acquiring  it, 
if  he  can  venture  upon  so  difficult  an  emprise.  Then 
there  is  the  critic’s  point  of  view,  quaintly  supposed 
in  countless  studios,  and  out  of  them,  too,  for  that 
matter,  to  be  antagonistic  to  the  artist’s,  which  is 
recommended  to  the  layman  in  the  same  way.  He, 
poor,  harried  mortal,  if  he  is  wise,  will  make  himself 
acquainted  with  both,  but  he  will  not  try  to  make 
either  the  one  or  the  other,  exclusively,  his  own.  He 
will  use  them  impartially,  rather,  to  fertilize  his  intel- 
ligence and  will  seek  to  develop  a third,  independent, 
point  of  view,  by  which  I do  not  mean  the  caprice 
of  an  egotist,  but  the  open-mindedness  of  a lover  of 
beauty,  and,  above  all,  common  sense.  The  absence 
of  that  homely  element  from  the  counsels  of  pretty 
nearly  everybody  concerned  has  in  my  opinion  done 
more  than  anything  else  to  promote  bad  art,  to  re- 
tard appreciation  of  good,  and  to  breed  generally  a 
habit  of  false  thinking.  I withdraw  not  so  much  as 
the  shadow  of  a shade  from  what  I have  just  said 
about  the  impenetrable  mystery  residing  in  a great 
work  of  art,  but  I would  as  unqualifiedly  assert  that 
for  the  purposes  of  right  thinking  about  a great  work 
of  art  there  is  in  it  no  mystery  whatever.  It  is  the 
work  of  human  hands,  and  meant,  just  in  proportion  as 
it  is  a great  work  of  art,  for  human  nature’s  daily 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


S 


food.  Common  sense,  I maintain,  must  force  us  to 
this  conclusion  and  in  doing  so  compel  us  to  revise 
a quantity  of  long  fashionable  doctrine. 

The  doctrine,  to  tell  the  truth,  is  honeycombed 
with  superstition  and  its  ritual  is  packed  with  cant 
phrases.  Artists  and  critics  alike  are  addicted  to  an 
oracular  jargon,  only  the  smallest  part  of  which  can 
justify  itself  as  legitimate  technical  terminology. 
What  is  more,  this  mode  of  expression,  which  might, 
perhaps,  be  condoned  as  only  a mode  of  expression,  is 
too  often  but  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  an 
inward  and  invisible  bigotry,  which  would  reserve 
the  appreciation  of  art  to  a chosen  few.  Well,  there 
is  an  old  saying  anent  the  fabrication  of  silk  purses 
which  has  never  lost  its  point.  While  the  catholic 
appreciation  of  art  is  partly  a matter  of  experience 
and  education  it  is  also  a matter  of  instinct  and  one 
may  possess  that  instinct  or  not,  by  the  whim  of 
nature,  as  one  may  possess  or  lack  an  ear  for  music. 
There  are  people  who  could  not  be  lured  by  years 
of  a patient  mentor’s  loving  kindness  to  comprehend 
even  the  rudiments  of  a fine  picture.  But  what, 
pray,  have  they  to  do  with  the  question?  To  drag 
them  in  would  be  about  as  relevant  as  to  drag  an 
untutored  rustic  into  a discussion  of  European  diplo- 
macy. No,  the  real  significance  of  the  grand,  gloomy 
and  peculiar  hypothesis  of  art  lies  in  the  unconfessed 
but  nevertheless  unmistakable  tendency  of  its  advo- 
cates to  detach  their  subject  from  common  under- 


6 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


standing,  to  invest  it  with  a kind  of  sublime  aloofness, 
as  though  it  were  something  too  sacred  to  be  touched 
with  any  freedom  at  all  save  by  priest-like,  “expert” 
hands.  Hence  a great  laying  down  of  laws,  by  artists 
and  critics  alike,  I repeat;  hence  the  oscillation  of  the 
layman  between  an  uneasy  self-assertion,  in  the  patter 
of  the  moment,  and  a pitiful  timidity.  There  is  little 
chance  in  these  circumstances  for  those  who  would 
merely  look  at  a work  of  art  for  what  it  is. 

They  have  had  particularly  hard  luck  in  respect  to 
the  art  of  Italy.  I should  be  an  ingrate  if  I were  to 
underestimate  the  writings  of  those  modern  scholars 
who  have  done  so  much  to  organize  a body  of  infor- 
mation relating  to  the  Renaissance  masters.  No  one 
whose  business  it  is  to  deal  with  works  of  art  could 
fail  to  profit  by  the  books  and  periodicals  in  which 
the  lives  of  the  old  painters  are  cleared  up,  while  their 
works  are  put  in  more  systematic  order,  and,  in  many 
cases,  the  list  of  a given  master’s  productions  is  short- 
ened or  lengthened  to  the  advantage  of  truth  and 
knowledge.  The  quasi-scientific  method  by  which  all 
this  is  accomplished,  too,  commands  only  respect  so 
long  as  it  remains  but  a means  to  an  end.  But  pride 
of  success  in  the  employment  of  a method  has  re- 
acted to  a preposterous  extent  upon  the  modern  school 
of  art  criticism.  Too  many  members  of  it  spend  their 
time  taking  in  one  another’s  washing,  so  to  say,  em- 
bellishing trivial  themes  with  a wealth  of  learning 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  intrinsic  interest  of  the 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


7 


subject,  flattering  one  another  half  to  death  with 
stately  allusions,  and  casting  not  one  scornful  thought 
to  the  hungry  sheep  who  look  up  and  are  not  fed. 
The  “general  reader”  is  assumed  to  be  a hopelessly 
negligible  factor,  utterly  and  eternally  unfitted  to  re- 
ceive the  pure  milk  of  the  word.  One  may  put  up 
with  all  this  “bounce”  when  the  scientific  school  has 
something  worth  while  to  say  on  a valuable  topic 
and  still  be  impatient  of  the  nonsense  that  goes  with 
it.  There  is  the  hierophant  of  connoisseurship  who 
is  nothing  if  not  a devotee  of  research  and  has  sub- 
stituted for  the  Correggiosity  of  Correggio  the  Mo- 
rellianism  of  Morelli.  Somewhere  in  the  course  of  his 
ever  so  knowing  travels  he  picks  up  a little  picture  of 
a Madonna,  authorship  unknown.  First  he  talks 
about  its  tactile  values,  its  morphological  traits,  and 
its  deep  spiritual  content.  Then  he  explains  how  it 
affiliates  itself  to  this  or  that  school  and  winds  up  by 
either  inventing  a new  master  for  his  treasure  or  tack- 
ing the  latter  on  to  the  record  of  some  historic  genius. 
Meanwhile  it  is  plain  that  his  picture  is  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  a modest  souvenir  of  some  fifteenth-cen- 
tury journeyman  who,  in  the  course  of  the  day’s  work, 
made  it  for  the  local  convent  and  went  cheerfully  on 
to  the  next  job.  There  was  nothing  morphological 
about  him. 

Let  me  not  risk  even  the  appearance  of  innuendo. 
The  discoveries  and  reconstructive  analyses  associated 
with  the  name  of  Mr.  Berenson  have  been  of  too  sig- 


8 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


nal  a service  to  the  history  and  criticism  of  art  for 
me  to  think  of  directing  against  his  solid  achieve- 
ments the  mild  satire  in  which  I have  ventured  to 
indulge.  But  I believe  that  even  Mr.  Berenson  would 
grant  that  the  kind  of  criticism  here  deprecated  has 
flourished  exceedingly  of  late  years  and  that  it  has 
done  an  immense  amount  of  harm.  It  has  exagger- 
ated minor  issues  and  especially  it  has  thrown  dust 
in  the  eyes  of  the  layman,  who  has  looked  on  at  these 
pontifical  proceedings  in  despair  of  getting  at  the 
bottom  of  them.  How,  he  has  wondered,  could  he 
ever  hope  to  be  initiated  into  the  meaning  of  such 
solemnities?  He  has  not  needed  the  initiation.  He 
has  only  needed  to  use  a little  common  sense  in  order 
to  realize  when  he  was  being  rationally  instructed 
and  when  he  was  having  his  leg  pulled.  Looking  at 
the  unimportant  little  Madonna  in  question,  with 
eyes  not  by  any  means  untrained  in  the  perception 
of  beauty,  he  has  been  literally  terrorized  into  the 
suppression  of  his  opinion  of  the  picture  as  a feeble, 
uninteresting  and  even  ugly  work.  Yet  in  that  opin- 
ion he  is  often  absolutely  right. 

Relief  for  him  from  the  tyranny  of  critical  vanities 
is  apparently  in  sight.  M.  Bourget,  in  “La  Dame 
qui  a perdu  son  peintre,”  Mr.  Henry  James,  in  “The 
Outcry,”  and  a number  of  other  writers  of  fiction, 
have  brought  a gentle  ridicule  to  bear  upon  the  Mo- 
rellian  principle  carried  to  excess.  Sooner  or  later  the 
pedants  who  persist  in  getting  between  beauty  and 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


9 


her  votaries  will  be  laughed  out  of  court,  and  the 
scholar  in  art  criticism  will  perform  his  useful  func- 
tion without  casting  a blight  upon  the  things  he 
touches.  In  the  meantime  the  layman,  escaping  per- 
haps from  the  critic,  is  only  too  apt  to  fall,  in  serio- 
comic fashion,  into  the  arms  of  the  artist;  and  then 
I am  not  sure  but  that  the  last  state  of  the  tormented 
man  is  worse  then  the  first.  The  danger  he  runs  is 
serious  enough  in  the  broad  matter  of  taste.  The 
artist,  save  in  rare  instances,  and  those  chiefly  in- 
stances of  genius,  is  a stout  believer  in  what  he  likes. 
Outside  of  that  he  must,  as  a rule,  have  acquired 
some  special  cultivation  if  his  guidance  is  to  be  worth 
anything.  In  short,  the  artist,  as  artist,  is  wofully 
given  to  narrow  and  prejudiced  views.  He  is,  more- 
over, obsessed  by  technique  and  there  the  layman, 
confessedly  ignorant,  is  ever  ready  to  behave  as  though 
by  the  mere  utterance  of  the  sacrosanct  word,  the 
ground  had  been  cut  from  under  his  feet.  I revert 
here  to  my  “impenetrable  mysteries.”  Technique,  or 
rather  a great  artist’s  possession  and  exploitation  of 
it,  is  one  of  them.  Consider,  for  example,  how  per- 
sonal it  is,  how  it  expresses  in  even  the  most  fleeting 
touch  the  character  of  a Michael  Angelo  or  a Velas- 
quez, a Holbein  or  a Chardin.  But  in  the  appre- 
ciation of  art  there  are  times  for  technique  as  there 
are  times  for  other  things.  It  is  good  to  savor  an 
artist’s  way  of  painting,  or  of  modelling,  just  for  its 
own  sake.  There  lies,  indeed,  one  of  the  joys  of  life 


IO 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


amongst  works  of  art.  But  in  the  final  perspective 
technique  is  to  be  apprehended  not  alone  with  con- 
noisseurship,  but,  as  I cannot  too  often  say,  with 
common  sense. 

Technique,  I think,  may  be  not  unfairly  described 
as  just  the  decency  of  the  artistic  life.  It  is  so  in  all 
the  other  arts  and  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should 
not  be  so  in  painting  and  sculpture.  I am  well  aware 
of  the  immeasurable  importance  of  technique.  It  is 
the  testimony  of  the  ages  that  the  poet,  putting  the 
right  word  in  the  right  place,  is  doing  something  near 
to  the  divine.  But  I assert  also  that  the  true  poet, 
doing  this,  knows  that  he  is  only  doing  what  is  ex- 
pected of  him,  what  is  required  by  his  own  self-respect. 
Literary  men  make  much  of  Flaubert’s  martyrdom 
to  his  style.  Mr.  James  talks  somewhere  about  his 
‘Thin  sheets  of  beaten  gold.”  That  is  very  pretty, 
but  Flaubert,  with  his  mot  juste,  is  a little  like  the 
legendary  Briton  with  his  constantly  assertive  tub. 
Civilized  people  take  these  things  for  granted.  One 
bathes  and  shaves  in  the  morning  to  satisfy  an  innate 
sense  of  cleanliness.  On  going  forth  one  does  not 
ask  the  first  friend  he  meets  to  notice  that  his  face 
is  clean,  bragging  that,  as  the  possessor  of  a shaving 
conscience,  he  has  raised  himself  above  his  fellows. 
Pugilists,  I am  told,  go  clean-shaven.  Flaubert,  com- 
ing up  to  Paris  with  his  loud  voice  and  his  style  of 
the  mediaeval  saint,  ready  to  go  to  the  stake  for  a 
comma,  really  brought  with  him  something  of  the 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


ii 


complacency  of  the  provincial.  Maupassant  and  the 
rest  thought  they  were  listening  to  a new  gospel  when 
he  told  them  that  two  and  two  made  four  and  that 
the  writing  man  must  know  his  trade.  It  was  like 
telling  a plumber  that  a clean-wiped  joint  could  only 
be  made  with  the  art  of  a Cellini  and  that  when  he 
had  made  it  he  was  the  equal  of  Michael  Angelo. 
There  was  nothing  original  about  this  propaganda. 
Its  partisans  forgot  that  every  artist  worth  his  salt 
has  done  his  work  over  and  over  again  until  he  has 
done  it  right.  No  one  has  hysterics  over  Beethoven’s 
sketch-books;  the  care  with  which  he  built  up  a 
symphony  simply  showed  that  he  knew  his  trade. 
Genius  leaves  the  mot  juste  to  take  care  of  itself,  or, 
seeking  it  with  blood  and  tears,  does  so  out  of  a sense 
of  honor  which  disdains  applause  for  mere  dexterity. 
But  all  this,  of  course,  to  the  average  artist  to-day, 
is  heresy. 

Just  why  he  has  made  technique  his  fetich  it  is 
difficult  to  say.  The  history  of  the  past  throws  no 
light  on  that  problem,  for  the  old  master,  working 
miracles  with  technique,  nevertheless  took  technique 
in  his  stride.  But  the  plight  of  the  modern  is  ex- 
plained to  some  extent,  I think,  by  the  nature  of  his 
training,  his  segregation  in  great  numbers  under  the 
direction  of  organized  schools  and  his  consequent 
absorption  in  formulas.  Inevitably  the  latter  take 
on,  for  him,  a talismanic  significance,  and  he  thinks 
he  has  suffered  a mystical  laying  on  of  hands  when 


12 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


he  has  only  been  drilled  in  a set  of  calisthenics.  He 
gets  professionalized  and  there  is  no  process  more 
deadening.  I remember  having  a letter  some  years 
ago  from  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  contemporary 
English  writers,  a type  of  truly  creative  imagination. 
“It  seems  to  me,”  he  wrote,  “that  the  whole  busi- 
ness lies  in  the  success  writh  which  the  author  remains 
an  amateur  — that’s  the  difference  between  the  writer 
and  the  painter  — able  to  preserve  his  simplicity,  his 
sense  of  wonder  and  magic,  the  delight  he  has  in  the 
wagging  of  his  pen  and  the  zest  with  which  he  will 
explore  the  recesses  of  his  own  head.  Professional- 
ism rubs  all  that  out  of  one  desperately  soon.”  There 
can  be  no  question  that  it  rubs  “all  that”  out  of 
scores,  hundreds,  I might  even  say  thousands,  of  art- 
ists. It  makes  them  nervously  self-conscious,  fear- 
ful of  doing  this,  eager  to  do  that,  and  in  both  cases 
yielding  not  to  personal,  thought-out  conviction,  but 
to  the  iron  rule  of  their  guild.  The  guild  idea  has  its 
virtues,  only,  like  scientific  criticism,  it  can  be  over- 
done, and  its  most  vicious  effects  are  those  revealed 
not  so  much  in  specific  deeds  as  in  a frame  of  mind. 
The  professionalized  artist,  proudly  shutting  the  lay- 
man out  from  his  mystery  and  doing  so  on  purely 
technical  grounds,  narrows  the  whole  charming  busi- 
ness of  art  down  to  a pin-point.  He  destroys  the 
bonds  of  sympathy  that  should  unite  him  with  his 
public  and  incidentally  arrests  his  own  sensitiveness, 
diminishes  his  own  power  of  vision.  He  and  the  lay- 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


13 


man,  failing  to  get  together,  talk  as  if  some  fires  of 
Pentecost  were  needed  to  make  them  both  free  of  the 
same  language.  Each  would  understand  the  other  a 
little  better,  and  would  be  ready  to  throw  a lot  of 
misunderstanding  onto  the  rubbish  heap,  if  only  they 
would  both  use  a little  common  sense  and  look  at 
art  as  a wholesome,  human  thing. 

It  is  common  sense  that  will  bring  the  subject  down 
from  the  clouds  and  keep  the  great  work  of  art  before 
us  as  the  creation  of  a man,  not  of  a demigod.  And 
this  common  sense  might  come  into  play  more  fre- 
quently if  in  the  study  of  the  history  of  art  less  atten- 
tion were  given  to  abstruse,  metaphysical  phenomena 
and  more  to  the  prosaic  facts  of  biography.  It  is  a 
singular  point,  and  one  not  inaptly  to  be  emphasized 
here,  that  the  men  by  whom  the  modern  painter 
swears  were  all  peculiarly  human  creatures,  who  in- 
terested themselves  in  familiar  life,  and,  to  be  frank, 
put  on  no  airs.  They  were  not  foolish  about  tech- 
nique. Neither  is  Degas  to-day,  any  more  than  those 
masters  of  the  past  whose  gifts  of  technique  he  shares. 
He  is  too  busy,  as  they  were,  establishing  all  the  ele- 
ments in  a work  of  art  in  a perfect  equilibrium.  It 
is  no  one  factor  in  the  making  of  a work  of  art  that 
should  be  singled  out  and  put  in  the  foreground.  It 
is  unity  that  gives  the  stamp  of  successful  genius. 
The  failure  to  recognize  this  explains  the  puerility  of 
those  debates  which  occasionally  arise  on  the  relation 
of  subject  to  technique.  It  is  a part  of  the  whole. 


14 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


To  carry  to  its  logical  conclusion  the  usual  argument 
against  the  subject  picture  would  be  to  accept  the 
proposition  that  pure  color,  with  no  form  at  all,  con- 
stitutes a picture.  Walter  Pater  deftly  touches  the 
problem  in  his  familiar  saying  about  “the  stupidity 
which  is  dead  to  the  substance,  and  the  vulgarity 
which  is  dead  to  form.”  But  I must  cite  a fuller 
contribution,  made  by  one  who  is  a literary  man,  it 
is  true,  but  whose  sympathy  for  art,  whose  passion 
for  technique  as  technique,  will  hardly  be  challenged. 
I mean  Mr.  James.  In  an  old  essay  of  his  on  Baude- 
laire he  has  this  cogent  passage: 

To  deny  the  relevancy  of  subject-matter  and  the  im- 
portance of  the  moral  quality  of  a work  of  art  strikes  us 
as,  in  two  words,  very  childish.  We  do  not  know  what 
the  great  moralists  would  say  about  the  matter  — they 
would  probably  treat  it  very  good-humouredly;  but  that 
is  not  the  question.  There  is  very  little  doubt  what  the 
great  artists  would  say.  People  of  that  temper  feel  that 
the  whole  thinking  man  is  one,  and  that  to  count  out  the 
moral  element  in  one’s  appreciation  of  an  artistic  total  is 
exactly  as  sane  as  it  would  be  (if  the  total  were  a poem) 
to  eliminate  all  the  words  in  three  syllables,  or  to  consider 
only  such  portions  of  it  as  had  been  written  by  candle- 
light. The  crudity  of  sentiment  of  the  advocates  of  “art 
for  art”  is  often  a striking  example  of  the  fact  that  a 
great  deal  of  what  is  called  culture  may  fail  to  dissipate 
a well-seated  provincialism  of  spirit.  They  talk  of  moral- 
ity as  Miss  Edgeworth’s  infantine  heroes  and  heroines 
talk  of  “physic”  — they  allude  to  its  being  put  into  and 
kept  out  of  a work  of  art,  put  into  and  kept  out  of  one’s 
appreciation  of  the  same,  as  if  it  were  a coloured  fluid 
kept  in  a big-labelled  bottle  in  some  mysterious  intellec- 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


15 


tual  closet.  It  is  in  reality  simply  a part  of  the  essential 
richness  of  inspiration  — it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  ar- 
tistic process  and  it  has  everything  to  do  with  the  artistic 
effect.  The  more  a work  of  art  feels  it  at  its  source,  the 
richer  it  is;  the  less  it  feels  it,  the  poorer  it  is. 

Surely  this  is  obvious  and  unanswerable.  And  is 
it  the  view  of  fine-drawn,  supersubtie  philosophy? 
It  is  rather,  I think,  the  view  of  common  sense.  It 
makes,  moreover,  for  that  natural  and  essentially  so- 
cial conception  of  art  which  in  the  last  resort  is  the 
only  conception  that  endures.  I have  myself  an  un- 
quenchable interest  in  technique.  I never  can  ignore 
it  in  my  study  of  art  and  on  occasion,  as  perhaps  the 
reader  of  this  volume  will  discover,  it  seems  to  me 
a subject  not  merely  excusing  but  irresistibly  demand- 
ing analysis  for  its  own  sake.  But  one  may  talk  and 
write  indefinitely  in  praise  of  technique  and  still  be 
bound  to  return  to  the  larger  idea  of  art  which  it  is 
my  purpose  to  urge,  to  the  beauty,  woven  of  many 
threads,  which  is  made  not  by  technicians  for  their 
comrades  but  by  men  for  mankind.  I spoke  just 
now  of  the  commonplaces  of  biography  and  how  nec- 
essary they  are  to  check  the  swelling  ardors  of  both 
artist  and  critic.  They  do  this  because  they  help  us 
to  see  things  as  they  are. 

A dip  into  the  biography  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  may 
be  of  some  service.  He  has  been  the  cause  of  floods 
of  fine  writing.  Shoals  of  enthusiasts,  from  Gautier 
down,  have  been  rapt  in  dithyrambic  ecstasy  before 


i6 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


the  “Mona  Lisa”  and  they  have  all  had  their  say 
about  that  lady’s  enigmatic  smile.  The  smile  must 
have  meant  a great  deal  to  the  master,  for  he  gave  it 
incessant  study.  In  the  drawings  of  heads  which  are 
among  our  most  precious  souvenirs  of  Leonardo  we 
find  him  forever  weaving  a spell  about  the  lips  of  his 
model.  Something  very  sweet  and  evanescent  lies 
there,  something  so  subtle  as  to  be  past  finding  out, 
and  it  belongs,  one  feels,  to  the  secret  recesses  of  his 
genius.  The  key  to  that  smile,  if  we  had  it,  would 
unlock  his  heart  and  aid  us  incalculably  in  the  dis- 
covery of  what  manner  of  man  he  was.  But  now  let 
us  look  for  a moment  into  Leonardo’s  workshop  and 
watch  him  amongst  his  apprentices.  Like  every  mas- 
ter of  the  Renaissance  he  held  a more  or  less  paternal 
relation  to  the  lads  in  his  care.  Besides  teaching 
them  how  to  be  artists  he  looked  after  their  health, 
comfort,  and  morals.  Here  is  what  he  writes  about 
one  of  the  apprentices  in  his  bottega: 

Giacomo  came  to  live  with  me  on  the  feast  of  St.  Mary 
Magdalen,  1490.  He  was  ten  years  old.  The  second  day 
I ordered  two  shirts,  a pair  of  hose,  and  a doublet  for  him. 
When  I put  aside  the  money  to  pay  for  these  things  he 
took  it  out  of  my  purse.  I was  never  able  to  make  him 
confess  the  robbery,  although  I was  certain  of  it.  A 
thieving,  lying,  pig-headed  glutton. 

The  episode  would  seem,  of  course,  to  have  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  Leonardo’s  art  — until  one  stops 
to  think  of  what  it  brings  back  to  us  across  the  ages. 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


1 7 


Not  an  incredible  Olympian,  lifting  masterpieces  out 
of  the  vasty  deep  by  the  waving  of  a wand,  but  a 
very  mortal  old  Italian,  taking  the  day’s  work,  with 
its  practical  duties  and  its  petty  vexations,  in  a simple, 
man-like  mood.  The  colossal  genius  was  also  a man 
like  ourselves.  Track  him  through  all  the  documen- 
tary and  other  evidence  that  we  possess  and  you  will 
find  him  invariably  tinctured  with  our  common  hu- 
manity. He  drew  Mona  Lisa’s  smile  and  he  painted 
that  “Last  Supper”  at  Milan  which  even  in  ruins  is 
a work  of  supernatural  beauty.  And  when  Baron- 
celli,  the  conspirator,  was  hanged  in  Florence,  Leo- 
nardo sketched  him  at  the  rope’s  end.  When  he  was 
not  dreamily  delineating  the  heads  of  angelically 
lovely  women  he  was  studying  with  a strong  psycho- 
logical solicitude  the  monstrous  physiognomies  of  old 
witches  and  beggars.  He  did  not  dip  his  brush  into 
earthquake  and  eclipse;  he  dipped  it  into  fife,  and 
was  content  to  speak  to  men  as  to  his  fellows.  There 
is  a famous  letter  of  his  in  which  he  offers  his  services 
to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  in  it  he  tells  how  he  can 
make  portable  bridges  to  be  used  in  war,  how  he  can 
devise  bombs  which  he  says  are  “proper  for  throwing 
showers  of  small  missiles,  and  with  the  smoke  thereof 
causing  great  terror  to  the  enemy,  to  his  imminent 
loss  and  confusion.”  Turn  from  the  “Last  Supper” 
and  go  to  the  old  Gastello.  Look  up  at  the  ceiling 
which  has  been  restored  from  Leonardo’s  design.  He 
takes  II  Moro’s  device,  the  mulberry  tree,  and  makes 


i8 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


a pattern  of  interlaced  boughs  and  leafage  incompara- 
ble as  a piece  of  formal  decoration.  A sense  of 
mathematics  as  well  as  a sense  of  beauty  went  to  the 
creation  of  this  design.  The  ceiling,  like  the  other  ex- 
amples I have  cited  and  a multitude  of  others  avail- 
able in  his  biography,  may  be  taken  as  pointing  to 
the  universality  of  his  genius.  But  these  things  also 
point  to  the  unassuming  resourcefulness  of  a practical 
man,  jealous,  as  we  know,  of  his  private  thoughts 
and  dreams;  but  living  his  life  on  workable  terms 
with  the  people  about  him.  When  all  is  said,  the 
artist  really  cannot  afford  to  do  anything  else. 

This  is  the  unimpeachable  testimony  of  the  past. 
Leonardo  is  typical  of  European  art  in  his  close  con- 
tact with  the  life  of  his  period,  and  it  is  interesting 
to  observe  in  passing  that  his  spirit  is  likewise  trace- 
able in  Oriental  antiquity.  One  reason  why  Japa- 
nese art,  which  has  grown  so  popular  in  this  country, 
is  yet  only  partially  comprehended  here,  is  that  Whis- 
tler and  other  noted  pioneers  in  the  appreciation  of 
it  made  a false  start,  fastening  upon  the  decorative 
motive  and  letting  everything  else  go  by  the  board. 
Okakura,  in  his  “Ideals  of  The  East,”  makes  short 
work  of  the  perfervid  zeal  which  would  erect  Hokusai 
and  the  other  masters  of  the  print  into  towering  por- 
tents. “Those  charmingly  colored  wood-cuts,”  he 
says,  “full  of  vigor  and  versatility,  stand  apart  from 
the  main  line  of  development  of  Japanese  art.”  The 
inros,  sword  guards,  and  objects  in  lacquer  of  which 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


19 


we  make  so  much  he  stigmatizes  as  playthings,  and, 
as  such,  “no  embodiment  of  national  fervor,  in  which 
all  true  art  exists.”  He  tells  how  in  ancient  China 
“painting  was  held  in  esteem  for  its  inculcation  of 
the  practice  of  virtue,”  and  in  another  passage  he  de- 
scribes the  history  of  Japanese  art  as  “the  history  of 
Asiatic  ideals,  the  beach  where  each  successive  wave 
of  Eastern  thought  has  left  its  sand-ripple  as  it  beat 
against  the  national  consciousness.”  I see  in  that 
poetically  suggestive  figure  no  impracticable  affirma- 
tion of  an  overwrought,  too  metaphysical,  idealism. 
On  the  contrary,  Okakura’s  appeal  is  simply  to  com- 
mon sense.  He  realizes,  as  every  one  must  realize 
who  thinks  disinterestedly  on  the  subject,  that  “na- 
tional fervor”  has  a status  in  art  fully  equal  to  that 
of  paint. 

The  French  have  some  notion  of  this  but  elsewhere 
in  modern  art  the  principle  makes  slow  headway.  In 
very  recent  years,  and  especially  since  the  develop- 
ment of  mural  decoration  in  this  country,  we  have 
begun  to  make  a little  more  of  the  themes  in  our  own 
history,  a history  abounding  in  picturesqueness  from 
Columbus  down,  but  we  are  still  handicapped  by  a 
droll  provincialism.  The  statue  of  an  Indian  used 
to  be  called  the  youthful  sin  of  every  American  sculp- 
tor. Though  we  have  got  over  that  there  is  much 
still  to  be  learned.  Our  forefathers  fought  two  great 
wars  but  we  have  had  very  gradually  to  be  lured  into 
painting  them,  because  they  did  not  wear  the  cos- 


20 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


tumes  of  mediaeval  Europe.  We  protest  against  the 
frock  coat  and  other  details  in  contemporary  dress 
but  Velasquez  was  not  afraid  of  the  tailor  of  his  time. 
Think  of  the  long,  commonplace  garment  worn  by  his 
“Don  Diego  del  Corral,”  or,  even  better,  of  the  gro- 
tesque farthingales  worn  by  his  Infantas!  When  we 
rave,  as  Whistler  and  hosts  of  other  artists  have  raved, 
over  what  he  did  with  those  grim  problems  of  his,  do 
we  give  a moment’s  thought  to  questions  of  costume? 
Do  we  worry  over  the  out-of-date  flounces  and  hats 
in  the  pictures  of  Alfred  Stevens,  when  we  are  de- 
lighting in  his  art?  We  reject  our  past  on  the  high- 
sounding  pretext  that  we  must  live  in  the  present 
and  then  we  think  that  we  are  living  in  the  present 
when  we  shut  our  eyes  to  its  real  stuff  and  pose  the 
matinee  girl  in  our  studios.  We  would  make  the 
world  of  art  over  into  something  totally  unlike  the 
world  of  life.  “By  the  Illissus  there  was  no  Wragg, 
poor  thing!”  Matthew  Arnold  was  thinking  only 
of  a matter  of  hideous  nomenclature;  but  the  cita- 
tion may  stand,  for  the  sake  of  the  “poor  thing.” 
There  were  Wraggs,  in  that  sense,  in  Greece,  and 
Phidias  looked  at  them,  we  may  be  quite  sure.  That 
he  did  not  actually  portray  them  is  a retort  which 
the  enemy  might  be  rash  enough  to  proffer,  but  it 
will  not  do.  Common  sense  replies  that  all  is  fish 
that  comes  to  the  artist’s  net,  that  the  condition 
on  which  he  succeeds  is  that  he  keep  his  sympathies 
wide  open,  responsive  to  every  human  emotion. 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


21 


The  proof,  if  proof  be  needed,  is  supplied  by  a mul- 
titude of  examples.  I have  cited  perhaps  more  than 
is  necessary  of  these,  yeti  am  tempted  to  add  another. 
Every  one  remembers  the  kind  of  pictures  that  David 
used  to  paint  in  his  cold,  eighteenth-century  manner. 
Taking  a classical  subject  and  working  it  out  with 
the  aid  of  innumerable  figures  and  studio  properties, 
he  would  pile  it  all  up  as  upon  a scaffold  and  leave 
it  a frigid,  hollow  fabric  of  artificiality.  But  outside 
that  academic  workshop  of  his,  the  Revolution  was 
turning  France  upside  down  and  occasionally  he  would 
look  out  of  the  window.  In  a few  hastily  scratched 
lines  he  thus  drew  Marie  Antoinette  as  she  sat  in 
the  tumbrel  on  the  way  to  the  guillotine,  and  as  he  did 
so  something  happened  to  David.  Human  emotion 
crept  in  and  stirred  the  man’s  soul.  There  is  more 
of  power,  there  is  more  of  life,  there  is  more  of  true 
artistic  eloquence  in  that  little  sketch  that  he  made 
of  the  Queen  going  to  her  death  than  there  is  in  all 
his  classical  compositions  put  together.  I would  not 
exaggerate  the  significance  of  that  incident.  Human 
emotion  does  not  automatically  produce  a great  work 
of  art  and  neither  do  I ask  the  reader  to  believe  that 
common  sense  will  automatically  make  him  free  of 
those  mysteries  from  which  we  took  our  point  of  de- 
parture. But  I think  he  will  admit  that  the  bene- 
ficial reaction  of  life  upon  art,  which  I have  illustrated 
in  David  and  others,  is  no  fanciful  speculation,  but 
one  of  the  truths  of  human  history  which  we  may 


22 


Art  and  Common  Sense 


all  successfully  test  for  ourselves  in  what  goes  on 
about  us.  In  advocating  the  use  of  common  sense 
in  the  study  of  art  I am  only  urging  the  reader  to 
keep  his  head  and  his  sense  of  humor,  to  be  wary 
of  the  esoteric  qualities  commended  to  him  by  the 
pundit  of  whatever  artistic  or  critical  persuasion,  to 
look  at  a work  of  art  in  a natural  human  way,  with 
an  open  mind.  Let  prejudice  and  pedantry  go  hang. 
Beauty  is  all.  And  is  it  not  the  enjoyment  of  beauty 
that  we  are  all  driving  at? 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage  to  Montauban 


II 


INGRES:  A PILGRIMAGE  TO 
MONTAUBAN 

For  those  who  revere  the  name  of  Ingres,  the  little 
town  of  Montauban,  in  the  southwest  of  France,  is  a 
shrine.  There  he  was  born  in  1780,  and  there, 
since  his  death,  in  1867,  his  collections  have  been 
assembled,  including  a vast  number  of  his  works 
and  many  souvenirs  of  a personal  character.  I 
cannot  count  the  times  that  I have  pored  over  the 
map  and  speculated  as  to  how  I might  make  a pil- 
grimage to  the  spot,  but  it  always  seemed  very  re- 
mote from  Paris,  and  once,  when  I was  near  enough, 
at  Marseilles,  to  make  the  journey,  other  plans  bore 
me  away  to  Rome.  Montauban  was  forever  rece- 
ding into  the  distance,  but  as  more  and  more  it  ap- 
peared inaccessible  the  desire  to  go  there  only  grew 
the  stronger.  In  a recent  winter,  travelling  down 
from  Paris  to  Madrid,  I found  it  hard  to  avoid  turn- 
ing off  at  Bordeaux  to  follow  the  Garonne  past  Agen 
and  Moissac  to  where  the  Tarn  hurries  beneath  the 
walls  that  I longed  to  see.  I resisted  this  temptation 
and  went  on  to  the  Prado,  but  even  while  I rested 
there,  content  among  the  masterpieces  of  Velasquez, 

25 


1 


26 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


it  was  an  ever  present  joy  to  have  at  the  back  of 
my  mind  a sense  of  the  fact  that  Montauban  was 
only  postponed,  to  know  that  I should  presently  be 
sitting  at  the  feet  of  Ingres. 

I 

The  transition  from  the  Spaniard  to  the  Frenchman 
is  easily  made.  It  is  always  easy  to  pass  from  one 
great  artist  to  another.  There  are  many  modern 
painters  who  can  see  only  an  impassable  gulf  between 
Velasquez  and  Ingres,  but  then  there  are  others  who 
are  conscious  of  no  gulf  at  all,  a fact  of  which  I was 
delightfully  reminded  when,  on  the  road  back  into 
France,  I paused  at  Bayonne.  Leon  Bonnat  was 
born  in  that  old  Basque  town,  and  to  show  his  grati- 
tude for  the  municipal  aid  that  had  enabled  him  to 
pursue  his  artistic  studies  in  his  youth  he  has  given 
to  his  fellow  citizens  a rich  collection  of  pictures, 
drawings,  sculptures  and  other  objects.  This  dis- 
tinguished painter  has  all  his  life  long  had  a passion 
for  Velasquez,  and  has  done  much  to  foster  apprecia- 
tion and  emulation  of  the  master  in  France.  But, 
like  Degas,  he  also  worships  Ingres,  and  the  Musee 
Bonnat  contains  some  perfect  souvenirs  of  the  latter. 
Among  the  paintings  there  is  a replica  of  the  exquisite 
“Mme.  Devaugay,”  one  of  the  triumphs  of  the 
painter’s  earlier  period  in  Rome.  It  is  a study  in 
black  and  yellow,  almost  Whistlerian  in  the  purity 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


27 


of  its  tones  and  the  simple  effectiveness  of  their  ar- 
rangement. There  is,  by  the  way,  a touching  anec- 
dote relating  to  this  portrait.  Many  years  after  In- 
gres painted  it  an  aged  lady,  shabbily  dressed,  called 
upon  him  in  Paris.  “You  do  not  recognize  me,”  she 
said,  “and  yet  you  have  painted  my  portrait.  But,” 
she  slowly  added,  with  manifest  embarrassment,  “I 
was  young  then,  and,  they  said,  beautiful.  I am 
Mme.  Devaugay.”  She  went  on  to  explain  that  ill 
fortune  had  harassed  her  and  that  she  needed,  to  her 
great  regret,  to  sell  the  portrait  he  had  made  of  her. 
Ingres  was  profoundly  moved,  and  with  characteris- 
tic energy  found  a purchaser  for  the  painting. 

Bonnat  secured  several  other  important  replicas 
for  his  collection,  and  he  was  even  luckier  in  respect 
to  the  drawings,  gathering  together  fifteen  or  twenty 
of  these,  among  them  several  of  the  finest  that  Ingres 
ever  produced.  It  was  exciting  to  be  in  their  pres- 
ence, and  thus  to  have  a foretaste  of  what  awaited 
me  at  Montauban;  and  the  experience  was  repeated 
at  Toulouse.  In  the  museum  there  hangs  one  of  the 
master’s  most  famous  compositions,  the  “Tu  Mar- 
cellus  eris,”  in  which  he  figured  Virgil  as  reading  the 
sixth  book  of  the  TEneid  to  the  Emperor  Augustus. 
In  substance  and  in  form  it  illustrates  the  very  es- 
sence of  his  genius  as  a classicist,  and,  though  I sus- 
pect that  it  has  suffered  a little  through  the  “restor- 
ing” intervention  of  some  later  hand,  it  has  a.  notable 
significance  in  regard  to  his  traits  as  a colorist.  Color 


28 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


was  not  by  any  means  his  forte,  and  there  is  a sug- 
gestive point  made  by  the  German  critic  who  drew 
a parallel  between  the  color  of  Ingres  and  the  mathe- 
matically balanced  chords  in  an  Oriental  rug.  It 
would  be  well,  however,  for  those  who  would  dismiss 
his  color  out  of  hand  to  look  first  at  the  Toulouse 
picture.  The  flesh  tints,  it  is  true,  are  at  once  too 
hot  and  too  dull,  but  in  the  draperies  there  are  some 
fine  tints  of  rose  and  yellow,  and  the  cool  but  not 
hard  grays  which  predominate  in  the  work  give  it 
a surprising  softness  and  depth.  I was  doubly  glad 
to  see  this  picture  on  the  threshold  of  Montauban. 

It  is,  figuratively  speaking,  but  a step  from  Tou- 
louse to  Montauban,  and  the  brief  journey  takes  one 
swiftly  from  the  present  into  the  past.  The  city  is 
large  and  prosperous,  and,  though  it  possesses  many 
noble  antiquities,  its  atmosphere  is,  on  the  whole, 
determined  by  the  business  activities  of  to-day.  The 
town  wears  another  aspect.  According  to  the  judi- 
cious Baedeker,  its  affairs  are  sound,  and  I assume, 
therefore,  that  its  people  are  comfortable,  but  the 
physiognomy  of  Montauban  is  somewhat  severe  if 
not  actually  forbidding.  It  struck  me  as  a page 
out  of  one  of  Balzac’s  studies  of  provincial  life,  a 
place  of  cheerless,  incommunicative  fagades,  of  dis- 
pirited streets,  ill-kempt  and  uninviting  to  a degree 
not  altogether  explained  by  the  gray,  wintry  weather. 
There  is  scarce  any  architecture  of  interest  in  the 
place,  the  tower  of  the  old  Church  of  St.  Jacques,  the 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


29 


double  arcades  around  the  Place  Nationale  and  the 
great  bridge  across  the  Tarn  being  the  sole  monu- 
ments having  any  weight  or  picturesqueness.  The 
ancient  chateau  of  the  Counts  of  Toulouse,  which  is 
now  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  has  passed  through  many 
vicissitudes,  and  its  present  character,  fixed  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  is  in  no  wise  impressive.  One 
turns  to  the  building  only  because  it  contains  the 
Musee  Ingres.  Not  alone  in  thus  sheltering  his  works 
has  the  town  sought  to  do  honor  to  its  great  man. 
At  one  end  of  the  Promenade  des  Cannes  he  has  his 
monument,  a colossal  affair  by  Etex,  one  of  his  pupils. 
It  is  a seated  figure  in  bronze,  set  against  a relief 
reproducing  the  master’s  “Apotheosis  of  Homer.” 
The  portrait  is  tolerable.  The  background  is  beyond 
description  inartistic  and  repellent.  Hand  on  heart,  I 
do  not  believe  there  is  a more  deplorable  monument 
in  all  Europe.  One  regrets  this  the  more  because 
they  gave  M.  Etex  a glorious  site.  The  view  from 
the  promenade  sweeps  the  country  for  miles,  and  it 
is  a lovely  view,  which  in  clear  weather,  it  is  said, 
includes  the  distant  Pyrenees. 

I found  the  museum  locked  and  seemingly  deserted, 
but  from  his  retreat  in  a corner  of  the  huge,  silent 
courtyard  I routed  out  the  concierge,  a terrific  and 
explosive  personage,  accompanied  by  an  infinitesimal 
and  madly  excited  puppy.  In  an  instant  the  noise 
in  the  place  was  deafening,  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  I learned  that  the  museum  was  closed.  I will 


30 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


not  pretend,  however,  that  I felt  at  all  discouraged, 
for  there  was,  indeed,  too  much  humor  in  the  idea  of 
ending  my  long  pilgrimage  just  outside  a locked  door, 
so  I sat  down  to  play  with  the  dog  and  give  the  con- 
cierge time  to  finish  his  roars.  When  he  had  at  last 
lost  his  breath  I told  him  how  to  go  and  find  the  con- 
servator, and  in  a little  while  all  the  reverberations 
had  died  away,  a lean  and  pensive  gardien  had  turned 
up  from  nowhere,  the  doors  had  been  opened  and 
shut  behind  me  and  I had  begun  to  realize  my  cher- 
ished wish. 

As  it  turned  out  I was  to  suffer  only  the  small- 
est shadow  of  a disappointment.  There  are  not 
among  the  drawings  as  many  of  the  finished  portraits 
as  I had  expected  to  find.  But  there  were  enough  of 
them,  in  all  conscience,  and  besides  there  were  thou- 
sands of  those  even  more  personal  studies  which  show 
the  draughtsman  at  his  daily  work,  preparing  for  his 
exploits  with  the  brush.  There  are  numerous  paint- 
ings also,  renowned  originals,  and  in  certain  cases 
where  great  canvases  of  his  have  not  been  available 
good  copies  have  been  substituted.  In  the  room  that 
is  first  entered,  containing  his  portrait  and  partially 
embellished  with  decorations  in  relief  made  by  his 
sculptor  father,  there  is  a glass-enclosed  alcove  where 
his  desk  and  violin,  the  gold  crown  bestowed  upon 
him  in  his  old  age,  medals,  manuscripts  and  other 
relics  are  brought  together.  The  very  spirit  of  the 
man  fills  these  quiet  old  rooms.  His  whole  career 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


31 


is  illustrated.  Musing  here,  one  follows  him  liter- 
ally from  his  boyhood,  amid  the  clash  of  Napoleonic 
developments,  to  those  last  days  in  the  6o’s  when 
he  carried  himself  in  Paris  like  an  ancient  Roman 
Senator,  and,  as  the  late  Alphonse  Legros  loved  to 
remember,  his  entrance  into  the  Ecole  des  Beaux- 
Arts  caused  all  those  present  to  rise  bareheaded  to 
greet  him. 

His  life  may  be  reconstructed  with  facility,  for  he 
has  had  more  than  one  zealous  biographer.  The  first, 
and  in  some  ways  still  most  authoritative  memoir, 
was  written  by  his  friend,  the  Vicomte  Henri  Dela- 
borde,  whose  book  not  only  traverses  the  painter’s 
life,  but  reproduces  a voluminous  series  of  his  own 
notes  and  reflections,  catalogues  the  works  and  adds 
a number  of  letters.  It  is  curious  that  this  precious 
volume,  printed  in  1870,  has  never  passed  into  a new 
edition,  and  that  copies  of  it  are  still  to  be  had  at 
the  publisher’s.  One  would  have  supposed  that  there 
would  have  been  a demand  sufficient  to  have  exhausted 
several  editions  long  ago.  M.  Boyer  d’Agen  has  pro- 
duced a good  book,  useful  for  the  documents  it  con- 
tains, in  his  “Ingres  d’apres  une  correspondance 
inedite.”  Invaluable  services  have  been  rendered  to 
the  fame  of  the  master  by  M.  Henry  Lapauze.  Some 
years  ago  he  published  a monumental  work  on  the 
drawings,  accompanying  his  volume  of  text  with  a 
portfolio  of  six  hundred  facsimiles,  and  only  last  year 
he  printed  a copious  and  well-illustrated  biography. 


32 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


In  “Le  Roman  d’amour  de  M.  Ingres”  he  has  told 
the  rather  cynical  story  of  the  painter’s  passing  in- 
fatuation with  Julie  Forestier,  and  he  has  in  prepara- 
tion two  volumes  of  the  letters  of  Ingres,  a volume 
of  hitherto  unpublished  documents,  and  a descriptive 
catalogue  of  all  the  works.  M.  Lapauze,  in  short, 
has  made  Ingres  his  own,  and  in  the  process  has  put 
us  all  in  his  debt.  But  one  must  always  turn,  as  I 
have  said,  to  Delaborde,  and  there  is  one  little  book 
which  is  better  worth  having  than  all  the  rest.  This 
is  “L’ Atelier  d’lngres,”  the  collection  of  souvenirs 
which  Amaury-Duval,  one  of  his  pupils,  published  in 
1878.  Amaury,  as  he  preferred  to  call  himself  in 
his  own  pages,  was  a disciple  no  less  observant  than 
loving,  and  through  his  tenderly  sympathetic  descrip- 
tions and  anecdotes  we  are  brought  close  not  only 
to  the  painter  but  to  the  man. 

II 

As  a child  at  Montauban  Ingres  felt  within  him 
the  stirrings  of  his  destiny.  He  was  only  twelve  when 
he  saw  by  accident  some  copies  after  Raphael  and 
some  fragments  of  antique  sculpture.  He  fell  upon 
them,  as  he  was  wont  to  say,  just  as  a cat  falls  upon 
its  prey.  Delaborde  tells,  too,  how  the  lad  used  to 
weep  with  admiration  as  he  shared  with  his  violin  in 
the  performance  of  some  of  Gluck’s  music,  when  he 
earned  his  bread  in  the  orchestra  of  the  theatre  at 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


33 


Toulouse.  Two  arts  claimed  him  in  his  youth,  but 
he  and  his  father  both  appear  to  have  realized  soon 
enough  that  he  was  meant  to  be  a painter  and  not  a 
musician.  He  was,  no  doubt,  a fairly  competent 
violinist.  As  a boy  he  won  applause  at  Toulouse 
with  a concerto  of  Viotti’s,  and  later  he  liked  to  recall 
that  he  had  played  the  second  violin  part  in  the 
Beethoven  quartets  organized  by  Paganini  during  his 
sojourn  at  Rome.*  But  it  is  to  be  gathered  from 
Amaury  that  Ingres  never  exaggerated  his  musical 
proficiency.  That,  as  a draughtsman,  he  had  the  root 
of  the  matter  in  him  he  showed  when  he  was  only 
nine  years  old.  M.  Lapauze  has  in  his  collection  a 
drawing,  from  the  cast,  that  Ingres  made  then,  a 
drawing  astonishingly  good  for  one  so  young;  and 
so  far  as  one  may  infer  from  the  earliest  relics  at  Mon- 
tauban  his  hand  thenceforth  never  faltered.  His 
father  gave  him  his  first  training,  and  then  sent  him, 
at  the  age  of  twelve,  to  study  under  Roques,  at  Tou- 
louse. He  also  had  at  this  time  some  instruction 
from  Briant,  a landscapist,  remembered  not  so  much 
for  his  works  as  for  his  energy  in  saving  many  of  the 
artistic  treasures  of  Toulouse  from  the  vandalism  of 
’93.  The  student  made  rapid  progress.  At  sixteen 

* It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  drawing  that  he  made  of  the  vir- 
tuoso with  the  portrait  painted  by  Delacroix.  There  is  more  mys- 
tery, more  of  the  bizarre  thrill  of  one  of  Paganini’s  conjuring  perform- 
ances, in  the  romanticist’s  “temperamental”  impression  than  there 
is  in  the  cool  linear  study  by  Ingres;  but  it  is  by  the  latter  that  one 
would  be  inclined  to  swear,  on  the  point  of  truth,  and  it  is,  besides,  a 
very  beautiful  thing. 


34 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


he  was  on  his  way  to  Paris,  where  he  entered  the  ate- 
lier of  David,  and  in  five  years  he  had  won  the  Prix 
de  Rome.  Technically  he  was  then  one  of  the  best- 
equipped  young  artists  of  his  time,  and  already  he 
had  begun  to  think  for  himself. 

Those  were  long,  long  thoughts  of  his.  David 
never  had  a more  loyal  pupil,  but  when  Ingres  set- 
tled down  in  Rome,  young,  ambitious  and  happy, 
his  artistic  character  was  as  wax  to  receive  the  im- 
press of  Raphael’s  genius,  and  Raphael,  he  felt  in  his 
soul,  was  an  immeasurably  greater  man  than  David. 
Between  the  two  influences  he  proceeded  to  beat  out 
a style  of  his  own,  compounded  of  Greek  idealism  and 
the  truth  of  nature  as  he  saw  it.  If  we  are  to  believe 
his  detractors,  and  he  has  had  many  of  them,  he  froze 
these  elements  into  a formula;  but  when  you  come 
really  to  trace  his  familiar  walk  and  demeanor  you 
find  it  impossible  to  regard  him  as  an  artist  who  lived 
by  any  given  set  of  rifles,  devised  by  himself  or  by 
anybody  else.  He  lived,  rather,  by  instinct,  by  en- 
thusiasm, and  both  were  for  beauty  and  the  world 
well  lost.  He  had,  of  course,  his  theories,  his  prin- 
ciples, but  it  is,  I think,  misleading  to  take  them  too 
seriously.  Beauty,  he  liked  to  say,  as  so  many  others 
have  said  before  him,  resides  in  truth,  but  when  truth 
confronted  him  in  an  ugly  shape  he  turned  his  head 
away.  There  was  nothing  in  him  of  that  scientific  pas- 
sion for  the  exact  fact  which  has  been  so  widely  devel- 
oped in  modern  art  since  his  day.  He  knew  all  the 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


35 


muscles  in  the  human  body,  but  it  was  his  boast  that 
he  did  not  know  any  of  them  by  name,  and  this  nice 
distinction  between  artistic  and  anatomical  authority 
was  very  characteristic.  “In  the  construction  of  a 
figure,”  he  would  say  to  his  pupils,  “do  not  proceed 
bit  by  bit,  but  build  it  up  at  a stroke;  get  the  en- 
semble.” And  again:  “Draw  purely,  but  with  large- 
ness. Purity  and  largeness,  voila  le  dessin,  voild 
Vart."  Once  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  authorize  the 
purchase  of  a skeleton  for  the  studio  used  by  his 
pupils.  Amaury  told  his  comrades  that  he  would 
give  them  fifteen  days  to  retain  their  “property,” 
but  by  the  end  of  the  first  week  Ingres  had  had  the 
abhorrent  thing  thrown  out. 

That  last  episode  might  seem  to  suggest  an  incur- 
able unwillingness  to  come  to  close  quarters  with  na- 
ture, and  there  are  sayings  of  his  which  nominally 
point  to  a narrow,  arbitrary  conception  of  truth.  “In 
the  images  of  man  in  art,”  he  says,  “repose  is  the  first 
beauty  of  the  body,  just  as  in  life  wisdom  is  the  high- 
est expression  of  the  soul.”  He  chose  his  subjects 
accordingly.  But  that  surely  was  his  right,  and  hav- 
ing made  his  choice  he  proceeded  on  the  hypothesis 
that  he  could  not  be  too  faithful  to  the  actual  object 
before  his  eyes.  An  old  pupil  of  his,  one  Granger, 
was  looking  at  the  “Edipus,”  and,  recognizing  the 
model,  remarked  that  it  seemed  to  him  an  idealized 
portrait.  Ingres  nearly  lost  his  temper.  “You  may 
think  what  you  like,”  he  said,  “but  it  is  my  effort  to 


36 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


copy  my  model  as  a very  humble  servant  and  not  to 
idealize  it.”  “Idealized  or  not,  it  is  very  beautiful,” 
retorted  Granger,  and  there  we  have  the  art  of  Ingres 
in  a nutshell.  Others  may  see  what  he  could  not  or 
would  not  see  himself,  that  his  sense  of  beauty  irre- 
sistibly governed  him.  Whether  he  could  not  or 
would  not,  it  was  idle  to  argue  with  him.  “He  was 
incapable  of  discussion,”  says  Amaury,  and  the  re- 
mark brings  up  a fact  which  is  not  perhaps  generally 
appreciated.  The  classic  calm  pervading  his  work 
and  the  gravely  dignified  figure  that  Ingres  presented 
to  the  world,  especially  in  his  later  Parisian  years, 
have  withdrawn  attention  from  the  southern  passion 
of  his  nature.  He  was  a true  Montalbanais,  fiery, 
impatient,  and  having  small  use  for  consistency  or 
logic.  Over  and  over  again  Amaury  illustrates  the 
tempestuous  habit  of  his  master  when  contradicted 
or  in  any  way  annoyed.  When  the  conversation  took 
a turn  distasteful  to  him  he  would  move  uneasily  in 
his  chair  and  beat  with  his  fingers  on  the  table.  At 
dinner  one  night  M.  Thiers  undertook  to  develop  the 
thesis  that  the  Madonnas  of  Raphael  constituted  his 
chief  title  to  fame.  “I  would  give  them  all,”  violently 
exclaimed  Ingres,  “yes,  monsieur,  all  of  them,  for  a 
fragment  of  the  ‘ Disputa  ’ or  of  the  ‘ School  of  Athens  ’ 
or  of  the  ‘Parnassus,’”  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that 
his  outraged  temper  could  be  soothed. 

That  volcanic  way  of  his  was  often  harmless  enough. 
There  was  the  case  of  the  industrious  young  Lefevre, 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


37 


who  was  very  poor  and  suddenly  absented  himself 
from  the  studio  because  he  was  in  arrears  with  the 
massier.  He  had  been  missed  for  two  whole  months 
when  Ingres  met  him  on  the  Pont  des  Arts  and 
wormed  the  truth  out  of  him.  “What,  monsieur,” 
he  exclaimed,  “would  you  insult  me?  Have  I given 
you  the  right  to  speak  to  me  in  this  manner?  Am  I 
a shopkeeper?  Do  I sell  my  counsel?  Monsieur, 
you  will  come  to-morrow  to  the  studio  or  I shall  con- 
sider your  conduct  as  a personal  insult.  Never  let 
this  question  arise  between  us  again.”  But  against 
this  noble  wrath  it  is  undeniable  that  we  have  to  set 
many  an  instance  of  almost  incredible  intolerance. 
“You  are  my  pupils,”  he  would  say  to  Amaury  and 
the  rest,  “ and  in  consequence  my  friends.  You  would 
not  salute  one  of  my  enemies  if  you  passed  him  in  the 
street.  Turn  then  from  Rubens  when  you  pass  him 
in  the  museums,  because  if  you  do  not  do  so  you  are 
treacherous  to  my  teaching  and  to  me.”  When  he 
found  Delacroix  in  a room  containing  one  of  his  pic- 
tures he  could  hardly  wait  for  the  hated  Romanticist 
to  leave,  so  that  he  might  open  the  window  and  purify 
the  air.  It  is  pathetic  and  a little  amusing  to  read 
the  references  to  him  in  Delacroix’s  journal.  The 
earliest  of  them  is  favorable  enough.  He  goes  to  the 
Luxembourg  and  sees  there  a picture,  probably  the 
“Roger  delivrant  Angelique,”  and  notes  simply  “In- 
gres charmant .”  But  Delacroix  got  over  that.  The 
time  came  when  he  could  say  of  an  exhibition  of  his 


38 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


rival’s  work  that  “it  is  the  complete  expression  of  an 
incomplete  intelligence.”  Every  biographer  of  Ingres 
finds  it  necessary  to  apologize  for  his  attitude  toward 
Delacroix,  just  as  every  biographer  of  Delacroix  seeks 
to  explain  away  his  observations  on  Ingres. 

There  is,  however,  a profitable  suggestion  in  that 
remark  of  Delacroix’s  about  “intelligence.”  Ingres 
painted  the  kind  of  picture  with  which  one  not  unnat- 
urally associates  ideas  of  intelligence,  of  reason,  of 
carefully  pondered  construction.  He  was,  emphatic- 
ally, a man  who  mixed  brains  with  his  colors.  But  it 
is  even  more  important  to  remember  that  a pictorial 
idea,  with  Ingres,  as  with  Delacroix,  stands  for  a jet 
of  emotion.  He  was  not  a native  of  Montauban  for 
nothing.  Impulse,  a sudden  and  swift  inspiration, 
the  conviction  whose  springs  cannot  be  analyzed  — 
these  things  were  forever  influencing  his  work.  Take, 
for  example,  that  masterly  portrait  of  M.  Bertin  in 
the  Louvre  which  ranks  among  his  highest  achieve- 
ments. I have  heard  it  contemned  by  no  less  a per- 
son than  Whistler,  who  met  my  enthusiasm  for  it 
with  the  round  assertion  that  it  was  no  better  than  a 
figure  by  Meissonier,  laboriously  and  nervelessly  built 
up  inch  by  inch,  with  every  button  on  the  coat  in 
the  right  place,  but  with  no  life  left  in  it.  Now,  as 
a matter  of  fact,  Ingres  did  work  like  a slave  on  a 
portrait  of  Bertin.  The  latter,  telling  Amaury  of  the 
master’s  despair  through  sitting  after  sitting,  said, 
“He  weeps  and  I pass  my  time  consoling  him.”  At 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


39 


Montauban  there  are  a number  of  drawings  showing 
the  false  and  heartbreaking  steps  he  took  toward  his 
goal.  But  when  he  reached  that  goal  it  was  by  a 
leap.  One  night  at  dinner  he  observed  Bertin  in  the 
pose  that  we  know.  “Come  and  sit  to-morrow,”  he 
whispered  as  they  parted;  “your  portrait  is  made,” 
and  the  next  day,  abandoning  all  that  had  been  pre- 
viously done,  he  attacked  his  canvas  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  success.  In  less  than  a month  the  portrait 
was  finished.  He  could  take  infinite  pains.  He  rec- 
ognized his  mistakes  when  he  made  them,  crying 
like  a child  as  he  cleaned  them  off  the  canvas  and 
started  again:  but  at  bottom  it  was  an  affair  of  vi- 
sion, not  of  hand,  that  thus  delayed  him.  He  had  to 
see  his  subject  in  the  right  way.  So  far  as  mere  dex- 
terity went,  Ingres  could  work  miracles.  Horace 
Vernet  used  to  say  to  those  who  thought  that  he 
painted  with  rapidity  that  they  ought  to  see  Ingres 
at  work.  Beside  him  Vernet  felt  that  he  was  no 
better  than  a tortoise. 

One  measure  of  his  greatness  is  accessible  in  the 
resolution  with  which  he  refused  to  presume  upon 
his  facility.  Master  of  line  that  he  was,  he  insisted 
upon  remaining  its  master.  No  technical  resource 
would  ever  be  brought  by  him  into  the  foreground. 
“Touch,”  of  which  some  of  his  contemporaries  were 
prone  to  make  so  much,  struck  him  as  only  an  abuse 
of  execution,  a quality  belonging  to  false  talents,  to 
false  artists,  who  painted  pictures  merely  to  show 


40 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


their  own  adroitness.  To  magnify  the  function  of 
“touch”  was,  he  maintained,  to  draw  attention  from 
the  object  represented  to  the  technical  process  used 
in  representing  it,  to  make  more  of  the  painter’s  hand 
than  of  his  thought.  Flippant  cleverness  he  merely 
loathed,  and  woe  betide  the  pupil  who  sought  “le 
chic.”  The  mere  utterance  of  that  phrase  in  his 
hearing  was  likely  to  provoke  a storm.  “Les  chefs- 
d'oeuvre,”  he  would  say,  “are  not  made  to  dazzle. 
They  are  made  to  persuade,  to  convince,  to  enter 
into  us  through  the  pores.”  Well  might  he  say  in 
that  sentence  of  his  which  has  been  quoted,  perhaps, 
more  than  any  other,  “ Le  dessin  est  la  probite  de  l’ art.” 
If  he  said  this  as  a draughtsman  he  said  it  also  as  an 
artist  in  the  fullest,  most  comprehensive  sense  of  the 
term.  It  is  of  his  rectitude  that  one  is  always  think- 
ing in  the  museum  at  Montauban.  You  do  not  miss 
there  the  movement  which  he  rejects  in  that  saying 
I have  cited  about  the  value  of  repose  in  art.  Neither 
do  you  miss  anything  in  the  nature  of  “touch.”  All 
is  serene  and  beautiful,  and  the  dignity  of  Ingres, 
his  smooth,  pure  surfaces,  like  his  astounding  draughts- 
manship, seem  just  the  right  and  natural  expression 
of  a great  original  genius. 


Ill 

I found  it  very  interesting  to  follow  the  construc- 
tion of  some  of  his  pictures  through  the  sheaves  of 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


4i 


studies  made  for  them.  Many  of  these  are  concen- 
trated in  portfolios,  which  somehow  makes  it  the 
more  illuminating  to  study  them.  Turning  them 
about  and  about,  handling  them  at  leisure,  they  seem 
to  exhale  his  mood,  to  bring  back  in  some  mysterious 
manner  the  hours  of  patient  and  ardent  labor  which 
was  not  labor,  after  all,  but  the  happy  exercise  of  a 
gift.  Amid  these  warm  personal  souvenirs  the  very 
last  shreds  of  any  pedantry  that  may  have  appeared 
to  cling  to  Ingres  seem  to  fall  away.  I make  no  pre- 
tence of  describing  the  thousands  of  drawings  in  the 
museum.  What  impressed  me  about  the  mass  was 
the  strain  of  beauty,  of  sheer  beauty,  running  through 
it.  In  drawing  after  drawing  I could  read  the  artist’s 
conscientious  search  after  truth,  his  tireless  interro- 
gation of  form,  his  loving  research  into  the  structure 
of  a hand,  the  bend  in  a leg,  the  play  of  a muscle. 
But  never  was  I conscious  of  the  quest  for  truth  alone. 
Every  touch  recording  a fact  seemed  also  to  recap- 
ture some  fleeting  trait  of  beauty,  to  envelop  form 
in  an  exquisite,  linear  grace.  More  than  ever,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  I could  appreciate  the  force  of  that 
profession  of  faith  which  Ingres  wrote  when  he  was 
nearing  his  prime:  “I  am  for  the  arts  what  I have 
always  been.  Age  and  reflection  have,  I hope,  con- 
firmed my  taste  without  diminishing  its  warmth. 
My  adorations  remain  what  they  have  always  been, 
Raphael  and  his  century,  the  ancients  and,  above 
all,  the  divine  Greeks.  In  music,  Gluck,  Mozart  and 


42 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


Haydn.  My  library  is  composed  of  a score  of  im- 
mortal volumes.  With  all  this  life  is  full  of  charm.” 
He  preserved  down  to  the  end  that  candid,  well- 
poised  faith,  and  he  had  his  reward.  When  as  a youth 
he  won  the  Prix  de  Rome,  his  sojourn  in  Italy  devel- 
oped some  trials.  He  stayed  on,  unwilling  to  tear 
himself  away  from  Raphael,  and  though  he  was  paint- 
ing masterpieces  he  found  it  next  to  impossible  to 
earn  a living.  That  was  the  period  of  the  innumer- 
able little  portraits,  the  drawings  made  for  sixty  francs 
which  are  now  fought  for  by  the  collectors.  Made- 
leine Chapelle,  his  first  wife,  whom  he  married  at 
that  time,  used  afterward  to  tell  of  the  straits  to 
which  they  had  been  reduced.  When  he  was  paint- 
ing “The  Vow  of  Louis  XIII”  there  was  not  money 
in  the  house  to  buy  a ladder  on  which  to  work  at  the 
upper  part  of  the  picture,  and  they  were  obliged  to 
do  the  best  they  could,  piling  one  bit  of  furniture 
upon  another.  But  at  that  very  moment  Ingres  had 
the  courage  to  refuse  a commission  to  go  to  England 
and  draw  more  portraits,  a commission  which  would 
have  paid  him  well,  and  the  gods  confirmed  the  de- 
cision of  the  distracted  pair.  In  Paris  this  picture 
made  a tremendous  success,  and  carried  Ingres  to 
fortune.  Thenceforth  his  course  was  clear.  The  ro- 
manticist might  rave,  but  Ingres  was  secure.  He 
throve  in  Paris  until  he  returned  to  Rome  to  take 
Vernet’s  place  at  the  head  of  the  Villa  Medici,  and 
every  day,  as  time  wore  on,  his  position  in  Italy  and 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


43 


at  home  in  France  was  that  of  a kind  of  demigod. 
I have  already  quoted  the  reminiscence  of  Legros, 
showing  the  veneration  in  which  Ingres  was  ulti- 
mately held.  This  veneration  ran  through  many  of 
the  studios,  but  decidedly  not  through  them  all. 
There  were  artists  aplenty  to  take  their  cue  from 
Delacroix,  and  in  the  world  at  large  there  were  other 
malcontents.  The  late  John  La  Farge,  who  was  a 
young  man  in  Paris  in  the  6o’s,  used  to  tell  me  how 
bitter  was  the  feud  between  the  two  camps,  that  of 
Ingres  and  that  of  Delacroix,  and  how  Chasseriau 
had  infuriated  the  former  by  breaking  away  from  his 
tradition  and  seeking  an  independent  path.  There 
was  much  wild  talk  to  and  fro,  there  were  sayings  that 
were  full  of  passion  and  of  malice,  and  there  were 
others  that  were  only  witty  and  gay.  Among  these 
last  there  was  one  by  Laurent  Jan  which  it  is  worth 
while  to  recall.  This  ingenious  homme  d’ esprit  found 
an  anagram  for  the  painter’s  name,  turning  Ingres 
into  engris.  It  was  a clever  stroke,  and,  as  Amaury 
admits,  “in  France  a thing  wittily  said  has  soon  the 
force  of  a law,”  but,  as  he  adds,  though  this  was 
amusing  it  was  no  more  than  that. 

Ingres  was  not  a colorist,  he  never  pretended  to 
be  one,  and  in  his  remarks  on  the  subject  it  is  plain 
that  he  had  not  been  initiated  into  its  mysteries.  It 
is  prettily  said  that  one  should  consult  the  flowers  to 
find  good  tints  for  draperies,  but  the  secret  of  his 
weakness  lies  in  that  very  counsel,  for  it  points  to 


44 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


an  arbitrary  mode  of  procedure.  Studying  his  work 
in  color  at  Montauban,  the  most  important  of  the 
paintings  in  the  museum,  the  large  “Jesus  Among 
the  Doctors,”  and  his  picture  in  the  sacristy  of  the 
Cathedral,  that  “Vow  of  Louis  XIII”  which  has  been 
already  mentioned,  I found  what  I had  always  found 
in  his  pictures  at  Paris  and  in  divers  provincial  mu- 
seums, that  he  was  curiously  indifferent  to  the  play 
of  light  and  the  absorption  of  light  by  objects  in  na- 
ture. The  evidence  at  Montauban,  and  at  Dam- 
pierre,  that  he  had  his  moments  of  insight  into  the 
secret  of  landscape,  is  not  weighty  enough  to  suggest 
that  he  was  even  dimly  on  the  track  of  those  dis- 
coveries in  light-saturated  color  which  the  Impres- 
sionists were  to  make.  On  the  other  hand,  as  I have 
noted  in  regard  to  the  beautiful  picture  at  Toulouse, 
the  flat  tints  of  Ingres  are  not  really  as  hard  or  as 
opaque  as  they  seem,  and,  above  all,  they  are  very 
pure  and  wonderfully  harmonized.  There  is  a superb 
glow  in  the  upper  and  lighter  portion  of  “The  Vow 
of  Louis  XIII,”  a golden  glow  which  for  a moment 
inclines  you  to  think  that  the  art  of  Ingres  had  in- 
deed its  sensuous  aspect.  And  yet  it  would  be  idle 
to  say  that  this  or  any  other  painting  by  him  has 
the  luminous  quality  which  belongs  to  color  in  its 
best  estate,  the  transparent  depths,  the  subtle  modu- 
lations, which  make  color  in  its  penetrating  appeal 
akin  to  music.  No,  it  is  vain  to  look  in  Ingres  for 
what,  flatly,  is  not  there.  No  man  can  add  a cubit 


Ingres:  A Pilgrimage 


45 


to  his  stature,  and  Ingres,  for  all  his  greatness,  was 
deprived  of  one  prodigiously  important  resource. 
“ Le  dessin  comprend  tout,”  he  says,  “excepte  la  teinte,” 
and  there  is,  perhaps,  an  unconscious  pathos  in  the 
exception  that  he  admits.  I felt  its  force,  even  under 
the  spell  of  Montauban.  But  genius  is  a mysteri- 
ously potent  thing.  In  those  still  rooms,  consacre,  as 
his  countrymen  would  say,  by  illustrious  achievement, 
it  seemed  fitting  to  murmur  only  those  proud  words 
of  his,  “Le  dessin  comprend  tout.” 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


I.  The  Old  Tradition  and  the  New 

II.  Rembrandt 

III.  Hals 

IV.  Vermeer  of  Delft 

V.  Chardin  and  Alfred  Stevens 


Ill 


THE  MAGIC  OF  MERE  PAINT 

I 

THE  OLD  TRADITION  AND  THE  NEW 

There  are  two  great  portraits  in  Europe  which 
because  of  the  suggestive  differences  between  them  I 
have  often  found  it  interesting  to  think  of  together. 
One  is  the  “Cardinal  Mezzarota”  of  Mantegna,  at 
Berlin,  and  the  other  is  the  “Aisop”  of  Velasquez,  at 
Madrid.  The  period  of  time  that  divides  them,  a 
period  of  more  than  a hundred  and  fifty  years,  is  as 
nothing  to  the  gulf  that  separates  them  in  the  matter 
of  method.  All  manner  of  developments  have  to  be 
reckoned  with  in  the  long  transition  from  the  studio 
of  the  Italian  to  that  of  the  Spaniard.  But  it  is  not 
to  traverse  these  through  their  infinite  ramifications 
that  I would  consider  the  two  portraits  in  question 
side  by  side.  It  is,  rather,  for  the  reason  that  com- 
parison of  them,  looking  simply  to  the  heads,  affords 
an  opportunity,  peculiarly  convenient,  amusing,  and 
fruitful,  for  an  exposition  of  what  I may  call  the 
gem'us  of  pigment. 


49 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


So 


If  you  ask  an  artist  to  tell  you  which  of  the  old 
masters,  in  his  opinion,  knew  how  to  paint,  he  will 
name,  at  the  outside,  only  four  or  five,  and  perhaps 
not  so  many.  Ask  him  to  explain  why  he  thus  re- 
stricts his  list,  and  he  will  say  that  the  old  masters 
used,  in  the  main,  a method  totally  different  from  our 
own;  that  only  a scant  handful  of  them  treated  pig- 
ment with  a true  feeling  for  its  character  as  pigment. 
The  layman  has  to  be  on  his  guard  in  these  matters. 
He  has  to  remember  that  there  are  methods  and 
methods,  and  that  the  method  of  the  Florentines,  for 
example,  was  just  as  valid,  in  its  way,  as  that  of  Ve- 
lasquez or  that  of  Rembrandt.  But  the  difference 
remains  and  there  is  nothing  more  profitable  than  to 
grasp  its  exact  significance.  We  may  do  so  the  more 
readily,  I think,  if,  in  contrasting  these  two  portraits, 
we  study  their  technical  aspects  with  reference  to  the 
broad  experience  of  each  of  the  painters  concerned. 

Mantegna,  trained  in  the  midst  of  Squarcione’s 
collection  of  classical  marbles,  based  his  treatment  of 
form  on  principles  of  sculpture.  His  grand  portrait 
of  the  Cardinal  is  very  like  a carven  bust  out  of  an- 
tiquity. Modelled  with  a stern  feeling  for  plastic 
simplicity,  superbly  drawn,  synthesized  with  an  ex- 
traordinarily austere  power,  it  seems  of  scarcely  any 
consequence  that  the  artist  should  have  introduced 
into  his  color  scheme  a plangent  note  of  red.  What, 
after  all,  is  color  to  him?  Form  is  what  he  cares  for 
in  this  instance  and  it  is  the  form  of  a statue.  But  it 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


5i 


is  not  upon  the  sacrifice  of  color  that  I wish  to  dwell, 
for  as  a matter  of  fact  Mantegna  shows  elsewhere 
that  to  color,  as  color,  he  was  not  by  any  means  in- 
different. The  sacrifice  I have  more  particularly  in 
mind  is  the  unconscious  one  of  that  quality  which 
goes  with  true  painted  color.  There  is  the  pivot  on 
which  our  problem  turns.  There  was  color  in  Euro- 
pean art  long  before  Velasquez  came  into  view,  but 
it  was  not  the  color  of  pigment  used  for  its  own  sake. 
The  paintings  of  the  Van  Eycks  glow  like  jewels  or 
enamels,  but  that  is  precisely  what  distinguishes  them 
for  the  purposes  of  this  inquiry;  they  have  nothing 
to  tell  us  about  the  genius  of  paint  as  the  modern 
painter  understands  it. 

Turn  now  to  the  “/Esop”  and  to  the  frame  of  mind 
in  which  Velasquez  painted  it.  He  had  begun  his 
career  as  an  artist  in  his  hodegones,  observing  every- 
day types  in  the  taverns  and  streets  of  Seville.  There 
were  no  coldly  gleaming  marbles  in  his  pupilage,  to 
fix  his  eye,  as  Mantegna’s  had  been  fixed;  upon  lovely 
but  still  opaque  surfaces.  He  saw  men,  not  statues, 
and  he  saw  them  as  they  wrere.  The  “^Esop,”  done 
when  he  had  got  well  into  his  stride,  perfectly  illus- 
trates the  inevitable  result  of  such  observation.  All 
is  changed  from  Mantegna’s  Greek  or  at  least  Roman 
generalization.  The  Spanish  head  comes  out  of  the 
canvas  a living  thing.  The  skin  is  drawn  over  the 
bones  as  it  is  drawn  in  nature.  All  its  little  ridges 
and  inequalities,  all  the  marvel  of  its  texture,  are 


52 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


there.  The  blood  is  at  work.  It  is  a porous,  sensi- 
tive integument,  there  are  nerves  at  work  in  it,  too, 
and  it  is  full  of  color.  Beside  this  thing  of  flesh  the 
Mantegna,  masterpiece  as  it  is,  is  also  a thing  of 
wood.  Now  a partial  explanation  of  the  Spanish 
painter’s  superiority  might  be  offered  in  two  words, 
life  and  light.  His  more  human  point  of  view  I have 
sufficiently  indicated.  I may  illustrate  what  light 
did  for  him  by  reference  to  a familiar  open-air  phe- 
nomenon. Look  at  the  forequarters  of  a horse  in 
full  sunshine,  when  the  thick  hair  is  saturated  in 
light,  and  note  how,  when  the  animal  moves  a muscle 
to  dislodge  a fly,  there  goes  a wonderful  ripple  not 
simply  of  light  and  shade  but  of  many  tones  of  color 
across  the  body.  Such  hints  as  these  Velasquez  was 
forever  reckoning  with  and  something  analogous  to 
the  subtle,  richly  charged  effect  I have  just  described 
passed  into  his  work.  But  while  I make  much  of  the 
difference  between  his  starting-point  and  Mantegna’s, 
between  his  interest  in  life  and  the  Italian’s  interest 
in  sculpture,  the  great  point  at  issue  is  his  possession 
of  what  the  earlier  master  lacked,  an  instinct  for  the 
magic  lying  in  mere  paint.  The  historic  experiments 
in  the  Low  Countries  and  in  Venice,  which  had  opened 
to  European  art  a new  world  of  color,  had  disclosed 
everything  save  that  one  secret.  The  men  who  after- 
ward arose  to  conquer  it  took  liberties  which  would 
have  shocked  the  Netherlandish  and  Italian  Primi- 
tives, treating  their  surfaces  often  with  a roughness 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


S3 


which  would  have  seemed  to  the  latter  a violation  of 
all  the  amenities.  But,  paradoxically,  their  ruthless 
abandonment  of  the  old  pure  and  suave  tradition 
meant,  instead  of  irreverence,  a new  respect  for  the 
instruments  of  artistic  expression.  Using  paint  with 
a deeper,  livelier  consciousness  of  its  intrinsic  quali- 
ties, bringing  its  individuality,  so  to  say,  into  the 
foreground,  they  extorted  from  it  a beauty  which  we 
need  not  call  greater  than  that  achieved  before  them, 
but  which  we  must  certainly  recognize  as  wholly  dif- 
ferent, wholly  new.  It  is  to  that  difference  that  the 
modern  artist  trusts  himself  when,  as  I noted  at  the 
beginning,  he  draws  up  so  modest  a list  of  the  painters 
who  knew  how  to  paint.  It  is  a little  absurd  that  he 
should  be  so  grudging  and  yet  one  can  realize  just 
how  he  feels.  Modern  painting,  the  world  in  which 
he  lives,  has  been  enormously  influenced  by  the  prin- 
ciple which  we  have  been  discussing,  and  then  the 
great  outstanding  exemplars  of  it  happen  to  be  types 
of  such  supreme  artistic  strength.  Of  Velasquez  I 
have  spoken  at  some  length  elsewhere  in  this  volume 
but  there  are  two  or  three  others  whose  careers  may 
be  briefly  traversed  in  the  present  essay. 

II 

REMBRANDT 

They  are  the  more  interesting,  I like  to  maintain, 
according  as  we  survey  them  both  as  masters  of  tech- 


54 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


nique  and  as  men  swayed  by  the  common  circum- 
stances of  human  life.  Rembrandt  passed  through 
the  world  not  only  that  thousands  of  artists  might 
have  to-day  a better  understanding  of  the  resources 
of  their  craft  but  that  the  truth  might  prevail  in  art. 
The  story  of  his  life  is  not  an  affair  of  esoteric  aloof- 
ness from  the  world,  of  technique  enveloped  in  an 
hermetically  closed  studio,  but  of  prosaic  effort.  This 
miller’s  son  was  born  in  a comfortable  house  on  the 
ramparts  of  Leyden  on  July  15,  1606.  His  parents 
were  in  easy  circumstances;  they  appear  to  have  been 
kindly,  sympathetic  folk,  quick  to  understand  the 
ambition  which  their  son  disclosed  at  an  early  age. 
He  experienced  none  of  the  usual  difficulties  when 
once  he  had  made  his  choice  of  a career.  The  miller 
and  his  wife  saw  no  reason  why  they  should  compel 
the  lad  to  study  Latin  when  his  heart  was  set  on 
handling  the  brush.  They  released  him  from  school 
when  he  was  still  in  his  teens,  to  enter  the  studio  of 
Swanenburch,  and  after  three  years  under  that  me- 
diocre painter  of  Biblical  and  historical  compositions 
they  were  content  to  let  him  leave  their  home  and 
proceed  to  Amsterdam,  where  better  instruction  was 
available.  He  chose  for  his  master  Pieter  Lastman, 
who  had  visited  Rome  and  had  brought  back  with 
him  a Dutchman’s  version  of  the  classical  tradition, 
which  is  to  say,  a mode  of  painting  more  interesting 
to  his  contemporaries  than  it  is  to  us.  Rembrandt, 
a man  in  advance  of  his  time,  was  not  long  in  ex- 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


55 


hausting  all  that  his  fashionable  master  had  to  teach 
him.  By  the  time  he  was  eighteen  he  was  ready  to 
return  to  Leyden,  there,  in  the  words  of  one  of  his 
biographers,  “to  study  and  practise  painting  alone, 
in  his  own  fashion.” 

His  art  was  founded  upon  nature,  upon  truth. 
From  the  beginning  he  tried  most  of  all  to  make  his 
picture  look  like  the  object  placed  before  him,  and 
the  people  for  whom  he  labored  were  just  the  people 
to  encourage  his  habit.  The  prosperous  burghers  of 
Holland  were  simple-minded  souls,  who  kept  their 
eyes  upon  the  fact  and  expected  the  painter  to  do 
likewise.  They  kept  him  busy,  too,  making  their 
portraits,  and  the  well-trained  artist  was  assured  of 
his  living  as  was  the  mason  or  the  cabinet-maker.  I 
purposely  use  this  homely  comparison  because,  in 
thinking  of  Rembrandt,  it  is  important  to  think  of 
him  as  working  with  his  feet  firm-fixed  upon  the 
ground,  called  upon  to  paint  human  beings  in  a sim- 
ple, straightforward  fashion,  and  qualified  by  birth,  by 
breeding,  and  by  his  whole  natural  impulse  to  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  his  surroundings,  and  execute  his 
task  in  harmony  with  them.  His  time  was  ripe  for 
him,  and  he  was  ripe  for  his  time.  In  saying  that 
he  was  a born  draughtsman  we  credit  him  with  a 
gift  which  he  shared  with  other  men;  and  indeed,  in 
certain  other  broad  characteristics,  he  was  very  much 
a man  of  his  period.  Both  in  his  tonality  and  in  the 
simplicity  of  his  light  and  shade,  he  followed  the  gen- 


56 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


eral  tendency  of  his  contemporaries  in  Holland.  But 
what  he  brought  to  his  work,  even  as  a young  man, 
that  was  peculiarly  his  own,  was  an  extraordinary 
authority  in  the  fusion  of  draughtsmanship,  color, 
and  light  and  shade  into  a form  of  art  marked  by 
great  feeling  for  character,  great  strength  of  style, 
and  a notable  instinct  for  pigment. 

He  began  his  studies  in  portraiture  by  making 
portraits  of  himself,  and  there  is  a startling  maturity 
in  these  first  efforts  of  his  brush.  There  is  a portrait 
of  Rembrandt,  painted  by  himself,  in  the  museum 
at  The  Hague,  which  dates  from  about  1629  or  1630, 
when  he  was  only  twenty-three  or  twenty-four.  The 
head  is  turned  so  as  to  face  the  beholder,  and  half 
of  it  is  in  shadow.  A steel  gorget  partly  covers  the 
stalwart  young  shoulders,  and  just  above  the  gleam- 
ing metal  a soft  white  collar  appears,  on  which  a full 
light  falls.  Nothing  could  be  simpler  than  this  con- 
ception. It  breathes  the  very  spirit  of  Rembrandt’s 
vigorous  youth.  The  bit  of  armor  hints  at  the  love 
of  the  picturesque  which  was  in  him,  but  otherwise 
he  gives  us  nothing  of  the  “studio  arrangement”;  he 
paints  himself  as  he  saw  himself,  with  a clear  matter- 
of-fact  eye.  What  does  he  do,  in  addition  to  all  that 
I have  already  indicated,  to  give  this  portrait  a place 
apart,  to  make  us  realize  that  he  has  something  new 
to  tell  us?  He  gives  to  the  sheer  paint  of  which  the 
portrait  is  made  a rich,  warm,  sensuous  quality,  a 
character  in  its  very  grain  that  fills  us  with  a sense 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


57 


of  individuality  and  beauty.  The  point  may  be  made 
the  clearer  if,  for  a moment,  we  compare  the  paint 
of  Rembrandt  with  the  paint  of  an  Italian,  say,  like 
Raphael.  When  the  latter  has  a portrait  to  make 
like  the  famous  “Young  Cardinal”  in  the  Prado,  or 
the  “Baldassare  Castiglione”  in  the  Louvre,  he  makes 
it  one  of  the  world’s  masterpieces,  both  as  an  inter- 
pretation and  as  an  example  of  draughtsmanship, 
modelling,  and  style;  but  he  does  not  get  out  of  its 
surface  quite  all  that  there  is  to  be  got  of  texture  and 
color.  He  does  not  make  you  feel  the  charm  that 
resides  in  painted  surface,  simply  for  its  own  sake. 
In  a sense,  it  scarcely  matters  whether  he  paints  his 
portrait  in  oils  or  in  water-colors. 

Now  Rembrandt  makes  you  feel  that  he  could  not 
paint  his  portrait  in  anything  save  in  oils,  and  that 
he  is  bent  upon  making  every  inch  of  his  canvas  show 
the  intrinsic  charm  of  oil  paint.  In  his  hands  it  has 
a fat,  unctuous  quality,  and  it  is  saturated  in  light, 
so  that  the  paint  might  be  described  as  a kind  of  skin 
laid  upon  the  canvas,  following  all  the  subtle  modula- 
tions of  form  in  the  object  represented,  and  having 
an  organic  life  of  its  own.  The  bony  structure  in  a 
man’s  face  is  expressed  in  touches  having  a mysteri- 
ous life  in  them.  They  state  the  fact,  and  in  stating 
it  they  give  you  a new  beauty  to  admire  — the  beauty 
of  transparent  pigment  — which  is  a beauty  as  indi- 
vidualized and  as  haunting  as  the  beauty  of  a jewel,  of 
a flower,  of  the  sea,  or  of  the  sky.  Furthermore,  and 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


58 


this  is  the  final  element  in  painter’s  magic,  a master 
like  Rembrandt  cannot  manipulate  pigment  in  this 
way  without  disclosing  his  own  original  quality.  It 
is  like  the  touch  of  the  musician;  one  great  violinist 
or  pianist  touches  his  instrument  as  no  one  else  in  the 
world  could  touch  it.  So  Rembrandt  lends  to  those 
rich  living  surfaces  of  his  an  accent  which  we  recog- 
nize as  though  it  were  the  accent  of  a word  falling 
from  his  lips. 

It  was  modified,  of  course,  by  the  passage  of  time, 
and  it  would  be  very  interesting,  if  the  process  were 
not  too  minute  for  our  present  purpose,  to  follow  Rem- 
brandt step  by  step  through  his  long  career,  observ- 
ing the  evolution  of  his  art  from  the  productions  of 
his  youth  to  those  of  his  old  age.  He  was  always 
learning,  and  there  is  always  something  to  learn  in 
contemplating  his  passage  from  one  stage  to  another. 
But  the  main  point  is  easily  stated.  It  is  true  that 
in  his  earlier  years  Rembrandt  painted  closely  and 
even  sometimes  laboriously.  He  is  never,  at  this 
time,  hard  and  mechanical,  like  the  mediocrities  of 
his  school;  but  he  is  very  patient  and  careful  in  the 
definition  of  forms.  Both  in  details  of  anatomical 
construction  and  in  matters  of  costume  he  is  a pains- 
taking realist.  But  even  in  his  formative  years  his 
carefulness  has  more  elasticity  than  you  will  find  in 
the  freedom  of  most  other  men,  and  as  time  goes  on 
his  art  steadily  broadens,  until,  in  his  prime,  his  works 
are  executed  with  superb  ease  and  energy.  In  com- 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


59 


plete  command  of  his  instruments,  knowing  just  what 
he  wants  to  do  and  precisely  how  to  do  it,  he  builds 
up  his  massive  portraits  as  though  without  conscious 
effort,  deepening  and  enriching  his  color,  making  his 
light  and  air  purer  and  fuller,  more  like  the  light  and 
air  of  life  itself,  and  altogether  putting  more  clearly 
and  more  brilliantly  the  stamp  of  greatness  upon  his 
work. 

Rembrandt  drank  in  the  inspiration  of  the  Bible 
at  his  mother’s  knee,  and  he  left  pictures  of  religious 
themes  to  show  that  he  could  illustrate  the  divine 
narrative  with  the  highest  dignity  and  the  tenderest 
feeling.  But  it  is  man,  in  all  his  infinite  variety  and 
in  all  the  chances  of  daily  life,  that  chiefly  serves  to 
stir  the  depths  of  his  imagination.  Character  was 
his  ceaseless  preoccupation.  A great  part  of  the  busi- 
ness of  his  life  was  the  portrayal  of  his  contempo- 
raries, and  when  he  painted  them  he  showed  forth 
their  hearts  and  brains,  not  only  in  their  faces,  but  in 
their  bodies,  in  their  hands,  in  all  that  is  implied  by 
carriage  and  gesture.  His  parents  occupied  both  his 
brush  and  his  etching  needle;  he  was  forever  making 
portraits  of  Saskia,  of  Titus,  and  afterward  of  Hen- 
drickje  Stoefells,  and  all  his  life  long  he  was  ponder- 
ing his  own  features  and  telling,  as  he  drew  them, 
far  better  than  words  could  tell,  of  what  lay  beneath 
their  surface. 

What  manner  of  ideal  is  it  that  we  may  discern 
there  with  his  aid?  Not  an  ideal  of  romantic  yearn- 


6o 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


ing  after  beauty.  Not  the  ideal  of  a poet  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  seeing  visions  and  dream- 
ing dreams.  No,  it  was  the  ideal  of  a profoundly 
sympathetic  human  being,  fascinated  by  the  poignant 
meaning  of  the  life  around  him,  impelled  to  express 
its  touching  beauty  in  terms  of  simplicity  and  truth, 
and  moved  in  the  midst  of  all  this  to  come  to  close 
quarters  with  his  technique,  to  feel  the  special  quality 
residing  in  mere  paint.  Whether,  as  in  his  earlier 
period,  he  gave  a smooth  pure  tone  to  his  surfaces,  or 
in  later  years  employed  a thick  impasto,  so  that  some- 
times great  ridges  or  smears  or  “blobs”  of  paint  ap- 
pear upon  his  canvas,  you  feel  in  him  always  the  man 
who  loves  his  medium. 


Ill 

HALS 

Frans  Hals,  the  contemporary  of  Rembrandt, 
shares  none  of  the  latter’s  graver,  more  thoughtful 
traits,  but  reveals  the  same  passion  for  the  materials 
of  the  painter.  In  this  he  is  one  of  the  most  modern 
types  to  be  found  in  the  past.  His  latest  biographer, 
Mr.  Gerald  S.  Davies,  notes  that  he  never  painted 
a religious,  a classical,  an  historical,  or  a nude  sub- 
ject; that  he  never  painted  a subject  “in  which  either 
a moral  motive  or  a pathetic  motive  was  the  raison 
d’etre  of  the  picture.”  What  he  did  do  was  to  set 
upon  the  canvas,  in  moments  of  peaceful  enjoyment 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


61 


or  absolute  placidity,  the  personalities  of  men  and 
women  who  were  capable  of  heroic  deeds  on  one  day 
and  of  contented  forgetfulness  of  them  on  the  next. 
Born  only  twelve  or  fourteen  years  after  the  opening 
of  the  war  of  independence,  he  was  never  swept  into 
the  current  of  public  events.  Holland  may  have  been 
in  eruption,  but  he  painted  Holland  in  repose.  Even 
the  swaggering  volunteers  immortalized  in  his  cor- 
poration pieces  are  warriors  on  holiday,  and,  in  short, 
all  of  this  master’s  work  is  dedicated  to  themes  sug- 
gestive of  anything  rather  than  the  throes  of  a nation 
in  revolt.  Nature  in  its  wholly  normal  aspect  was 
the  foundation  of  his  art. 

We  know  next  to  nothing  of  the  man  himself.  He 
loved  the  material  side  of  life,  loved  it,  perhaps,  too 
well,  for  among  the  few  details  of  his  private  career 
that  remain  to  us  there  are  some  proving  pretty  con- 
clusively that  his  habits  were  none  of  the  best.  If 
his  old  age  was  dreary  and  he  died  a poor  man,  his 
convivial  foibles  were  probably  the  cause.  It  is  im- 
possible to  think  of  Hals  as  a prudent  man.  He  en- 
joyed his  food  and  drink,  and  took  no  thought  of  the 
morrow.  But  in  so  far  as  we  can  reconstruct  the  na- 
ture of  the  man  from  his  work  we  are  undoubtedly  safe 
in  affirming  that  he  loved  sincerity  and  truth.  These 
are  the  qualities  that  shine  out  from  all  his  paintings. 
His  early  work  has  disappeared.  Information  about 
his  period  of  apprenticeship  is  as  scarce  as  informa- 
tion about  his  private  life.  At  Antwerp,  where  he 


62 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


was  born,  and  spent  his  boyhood  and  youth,  he  may 
have  acquired  some  of  the  artistic  traits  of  Adam 
Van  Noort,  as  a regular  worker  in  the  studio  of  that 
mediocrity;  he  may,  in  the  same  city,  have  been  in- 
fluenced by  companionship  with  the  young  Rubens, 
or  by  study  of  the  paintings  of  Antonio  Moro.  Pro- 
ceeding to  Haarlem  as  a young  man,  he  may  have 
derived  something  from  Karel  Van  Mander,  in  whose 
studio  he  is  said  to  have  labored  as  a pupil;  and  the 
colleague  of  Van  Mander,  Cornelius  Cornelissen,  may 
have  taught  him  a little.  But  the  first  authoritative 
evidence  that  we  have  as  to  the  character  of  Hals  as  a 
painter  is  his  “Banquet  of  St.  Joris’  Shooting  Guild,” 
which  dates  from  1616,  when  he  was  in  his  early 
thirties.  Then  he  provided  the  “good  likeness”  upon 
which  the  Dutch  patron  strenuously  insisted  and  then, 
as  thereafter,  he  added  to  it  the  fascination  of  con- 
summate craft. 

This  thoroughly  practical  worker,  a man  willing 
to  please  his  sitter  by  giving  him  first  and  last  a faith- 
ful transcript  of  fact  — and,  moreover,  impelled  by 
his  nature  to  paint  the  truth  or  nothing  — was  a 
“painter’s  painter”  in  the  most  modern  sense  of  the 
term.  The  man  who  to-day  thinks  more  of  the  tech- 
nical quality  of  his  work  than  of  his  subject  is,  ac- 
cording to  his  lights,  a follower  of  Frans  Hals.  Only 
it  never  would  have  occurred  to  Hals  that  his  sub- 
ject could  be  subordinated  to  his  technique,  and,  in 
fact,  be  treated  as  nothing  more  than  a peg  on  which 


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63 


to  hang  an  artistic  effect.  It  has  been  left  to  the 
modern  painter  to  exalt  pigment  higher  than  it  was 
exalted  by  the  masters  who  invented  it  and  exploited 
it  with  inimitable  success.  For  Hals  the  human  in- 
terest was  of  profound  importance.  One  cannot  im- 
agine him  as  having  looked  with  indifference  upon 
his  sitters.  He  sees  character  always,  and  expresses 
it,  in  many  instances,  with  much  of  Rembrandt’s 
gusto.  Where  he  remained  a painter’s  painter  is  in 
taking  equal  delight  in  the  manipulation  of  his  in- 
struments, and  in  communicating  to  his  portraits  the 
charm  that  dwells  in  technique.  He  has  been  crit- 
icised as  one  too  ready  to  display  his  technique,  too 
eager  to  amaze  the  beholder.  The  point  is  hardly 
valid.  Hals  did  not  attitudinize.  If  he  played  with 
his  brushes  in  a manner  somewhat  spectacular  it  was 
only  as  a great  musician  indulges  in  a certain  bravura, 
because  he  likes  that  sort  of  thing,  and  has  no  thought 
of  tickling  the  ears  of  the  groundling.  Hals  must 
have  revelled  in  the  exercise  of  his  gifts.  No  one 
could  possess  such  gifts  and  not  exercise  them  in 
sheer  delight  of  the  occupation.  The  explanation  is 
simple.  Gifts  like  his  are  in  themselves  interesting. 

Painters  rejoice  in  him  because  he  paints  so  well, 
because  his  touch  is  so  swift  and  so  sure,  because 
the  intrinsic  quality  of  paint  is  brought  out  in  his 
work  as  in  the  work  of  only  one  painter  in  ten  thou- 
sand. He  was  not  a great  colorist.  His  range  was 
never  wide,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  ever  have 


64 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


approved  himself  a master  of  harmony,  even  if  he 
had  not  been  compelled,  in  his  huge  corporation  pieces, 
to  make  the  best  of  discordant  costumes  and  draperies. 
Some  of  his  portraits  would  look  as  well  in  monotone 
as  in  color.  But  there  are  passages  of  color  in  his 
painting  which,  taken  by  themselves,  are  superb,  and 
I may  remark  in  passing  that  there  are  some  blacks 
of  his,  in  a few  of  his  last  works,  which  are  as  fine, 
almost,  as  the  blacks  of  Velasquez.  Though  we  may 
miss  in  him  the  golden  glow  of  Rembrandt,  his  color 
and  tone  are  still  extraordinarily  fine.  After  all, 
there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  ask  Hals  to  be  some 
one  other  than  himself,  to  paint  with  the  palette  of 
Titian  when  there  was  nothing  in  his  temperament 
even  remotely  akin  to  that  of  the  sumptuous  Vene- 
tian. We  go  to  Hals  for  magnificent  brushwork, 
for  powerful  modelling,  and  these  things  he  gives  us 
in  abounding  measure,  along  with  the  vitality,  the 
human  truth,  which  we  also  expect  of  him. 

IV 

VERMEER  OF  DELFT 

The  fame  of  Jan  Vermeer  of  Delft  is  something 
less  than  half  a century  old.  It  dates  from  the  study 
of  him  published  in  the  Gazette  des  Beaux  Arts  in 
1866,  by  W.  Burger,  who  had  discovered  him  only 
a few  years  before,  and  it  rests  upon  a very  small 
body  of  work.  The  most  painstaking  research  made 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


65 


by  European  experts  has  discovered  in  all  the  collec- 
tions of  the  world  only  between  thirty  and  forty  Ver- 
meers of  incontestable  authenticity.  The  literature 
of  the  subject  has  grown  to  be  fairly  voluminous  since 
Burger’s  day  but  it  has  consisted  very  largely  of  crit- 
icism of  the  paintings,  and  has  thrown  hardly  any 
light  on  the  history  of  the  man.  The  definitive  pub- 
lication is  the  book  by  Dr.  Hofstede  de  Groot,  printed 
on  a large  scale  with  imposing  plates,  and  there  is  a 
good  monograph  by  M.  Gustave  Van  Zype.  The 
known  facts  about  Vermeer  may  still  be  written  on 
half  a page  of  note-paper. 

He  was  born  at  Delft  in  1632.  In  his  twenty-first 
year  he  was  married  to  Catherine  Bolnes,  by  whom 
he  had  ten  children  before  his  death  in  1675.  In  the 
year  of  his  marriage  he  was  admitted  to  the  Guild  of 
Painters  and  the  records  show  that  he  served  as  Dean 
of  that  body  in  1662,  and  again  in  1670.  He  appears 
to  have  been  in  modest  and  even  poor  circumstances. 
We  hear  of  a debt  to  the  baker  which  involved  the 
pledging  of  two  of  his  pictures.  Twenty-one  years 
after  his  death  a number  of  his  paintings  formed  part 
of  a sale  at  Amsterdam,  and  the  highest  figure  paid 
for  one  of  them  was  that  of  300  florins,  paid  for  the 
magnificent  “View  of  Delft,”  now  one  of  the  glories 
of  The  Hague.  One  picture  in  the  list,  the  “Jeune 
Dentelliere,”  to-day  in  the  Louvre,  fetched  in  1696 
the  ridiculous  sum  of  28  florins.  It  is  useless  to  ask 
why  these  things  were  thus.  We  know  nothing  about 


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The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


it.  The  archives  yield  not  a scrap  of  evidence.  All 
we  know  is  that  Vermeer,  only  moderately  success- 
ful in  his  lifetime,  was  neglected  and  forgotten  soon 
after  his  death  and  thenceforth  ignored  until  Burger 
brought  him  to  light  and  urged  his  claims  to  enthu- 
siastic admiration.  His  pictures,  which  were  seldom 
signed,  were  handed  over  to  Pieter  de  Hooghe,  Nico- 
las Maes  or  Metsu.  It  is  a curious  reflection  on  the 
connoisseurship  of  past  generations,  for  Vermeer  is 
nothing  if  not  original,  a type  having  only  superficial 
points  of  contact  with  the  men  to  whom  his  works 
were  so  light-heartedly  ascribed. 

What  were  the  origins  of  his  art,  studied  in  the  light 
of  internal  evidence?  M.  Van  Zype  points  out  that 
he  must  have  begun  his  pupilage  at  a golden  moment. 
Rembrandt  was  at  his  apogee.  Hals,  though  on  in 
years,  was  still  painting.  Among  Vermeer’s  con- 
temporaries were  men  then  in  the  full  tide  of  activ- 
ity like  Dou,  Brouwer,  Ostade,  Metsu,  Terburg  and 
Cuyp  and  others  nearer  his  own  age,  like  Maes,  De 
Hooghe,  Hobbema,  Steen  and  Ruysdael.  Who,  in 
all  that  busy  company,  was  his  master?  It  has  been 
surmised  that  he  may  have  issued  from  the  studio  of 
Rembrandt,  or  at  least  been  subject  to  his  influence, 
but  only  one  or  two  of  his  works  give  even  a fanci- 
ful warrant  for  this  theory,  and  outside  of  the  works 
we  have  no  data  whatever.  A more  plausible  hy- 
pothesis would  have  it  that  he  was  formed  by  Carel 
Fabritius,  the  pupil  of  Rembrandt,  untimely  lost. 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


6 7 


M.  Van  Zype  plays  wistfully  with  the  idea  that  Ver- 
meer may  have  profited  by  association  with  Leon- 
ard Bramer,  a minor  artist  of  Delft,  who  had  travelled 
in  France  and  Italy,  had  met  Adam  Elzheimer  in 
Rome,  was  intimate  with  Rembrandt,  and  may,  as  a 
family  friend,  have  brought  into  our  painter’s  fife  a 
certain  inspiration,  accounting  for  the  elevation  of 
his  art.  But  all  this  is  pure  guesswork.  As  M.  Van 
Zype  is  driven  to  conclude,  Vermeer  of  Delft  stands 
by  himself,  as  isolated  a phenomenon  as  Velasquez 
in  Spain. 

His  originality  began  with  his  attitude  toward  his 
material,  the  familiar  fife  of  Delft.  The  Little  Mas- 
ters of  the  Low  Countries  were  all  wont  to  paint  that 
life,  but  from  a different  point  of  view.  In  the  first 
place,  they  exploited  it  with  a freer  touch,  a broader 
humor.  Social  fife  at  that  time  was  honest  but  a 
little  coarse.  The  pleasures  of  the  table  were  en- 
joyed without  stint.  The  prosperity  of  a jest  re- 
sided in  the  bluntness  of  its  point.  There  was  a great 
love  of  rich  comfort,  if  not  of  luxury,  abroad,  and  the 
painters  who  reflected  the  spirit  of  their  day  either 
gave  easy  rein  to  a mood  of  realism  rather  jarring  to 
our  modern  taste,  or  wreaked  themselves  on  the  sen- 
suous charm  of  decorative  accessories.  It  took  a 
genius  like  Rembrandt’s  to  whelm  visible  truth  in 
the  glamour  of  the  creative  imagination,  or  it  took 
another  kind  of  genius  like  that  of  Vermeer  to  bathe 
the  facts  of  life  in  just  a pure  and  serene  distinction. 


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The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


There  is  a painting  by  him  at  Dresden,  “The  Cour- 
tesan,” which  stands  alone  among  all  his  works  as 
having  a kind  of  vulgar  subject  which  was  popular 
with  many  of  his  fellows.  Curiously,  too,  it  is  painted 
on  a scale  larger  than  was  usual  with  him  and  in  a 
bolder  key  of  color;  but  it  is  significant  that  it  is  one 
of  his  earlier  pieces,  and  that  it  is,  moreover,  lifted  by 
the  painter’s  essentially  refined  art  far  above  the  level 
on  which  his  countrymen  were  accustomed  to  treat 
the  same  motive.  I make  much  of  this  point  for  the 
reason  that  a consummate  fineness  of  fibre  is  one  of 
Vermeer’s  most  important  characteristics. 

The  crass  technician,  narrowly  jealous  of  his  paint- 
ing as  painting,  and  inclined  to  rage  if  you  suspect 
him  of  having  an  intellectual  or  a spiritual  purpose, 
would  withdraw  attention  from  everything  in  Ver- 
meer save  the  power  of  his  hand.  The  more  judi- 
cious observer  will  perceive  in  the  work  of  this  painter 
a special  mental  quality,  a nobility  of  outlook,  a deli- 
cate emotion  excited  by  the  artist’s  very  subtle  flair 
for  the  beauty  in  his  material.  It  is  well  to  note  the 
exquisite  equilibrium  which  Vermeer  establishes  be- 
tween his  figures  and  their  backgrounds.  He  paints 
a servant  at  work  in  her  kitchen,  a girl  playing  a 
mandolin,  or  another  making  music  at  the  harpsi- 
chord. His  models  are  prosperous  ladies  of  Delft 
amusing  themselves,  writing  or  reading  a letter,  tast- 
ing a glass  of  wine  or  coquettishly  toying  with  jewels. 
Whatever  they  are  doing  he  paints  them  with  an  ex- 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


69 


traordinary  simplicity,  and  while  never  unduly  empha- 
sizing an  accessory  — a musical  instrument,  a chair, 
a platter  of  fruit,  a hanging  or  a picture  — he  extorts 
from  every  detail  just  the  amount  of  interest  and 
beauty  necessary  to  the  perfecting  of  his  unit  of  design. 
He  sometimes  went  a little  further  afield.  There  is  a 
picture  of  “ Diana  and  her  Nymphs”  by  him  at  The 
Hague;  in  a Scottish  collection  there  is  a noble  relig- 
ious painting  of  his,  “Jesus  in  the  House  of  Martha,” 
and  Dr.  Bredius  owns  a Vermeer,  “The  New  Testa- 
ment,” which  shows,  by  a process  of  suggestion,  that 
the  artist  had  a certain  feeling  for  sacred  things.  But 
his  genius  would  appear  to  have  been  most  naturally 
and  conclusively  expressed  in  those  domestic  interiors 
to  which  I have  alluded,  those  placid  scenes  in  which 
men  and  women,  preferably  women,  are  painted  in 
softly  lighted  rooms,  just  for  the  sake  of  such  beauty 
as  form,  color  and  light  may  yield. 

His  drawing  is  impeccable.  His  figures  stand  upon 
their  legs;  they  are  solid  bodies  modelled  with  abso- 
lute knowledge.  He  loves  beautiful  blues,  yellows 
and  grays,  and  he  makes  them  more  beautiful  by  the 
cool  luminosity  in  which  he  saturates  them.  What 
a painter  would  call  the  facture  of  his  work  is  incom- 
parable. He  invests  his  surfaces  with  a beauty  in 
which  you  recognize  the  very  essence  of  perfect  tech- 
nique. A square  inch  cut  from  one  of  his  paintings, 
a square  inch  of  one  of  those  walls  against  which  he 
poses  his  figure,  would  by  itself  tell  you  that  a master 


70 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


of  his  craft  had  passed  that  way.  Yet,  as  has  already 
been  suggested,  the  qualities  in  Vermeer  that  ravish 
the  eye  have  their  source  not  in  manual  dexterity 
alone  but  in  the  artist’s  temperament,  in  modes  of 
thought  and  feeling.  He  must  have  had  a veritable 
passion  for  beauty.  If  he  could  not  give  his  Diana 
an  aureole  of  unmistakably  poetic  grace  he  could,  at 
all  events,  substitute  a sensuous  charm  which  is  in 
its  way  as  beguiling  as  anything  a more  classically 
minded  painter  could  have  achieved.  There  is  an 
impressive  dignity  about  his  “Jesus  in  the  House  of 
Martha,”  for  all  that  there  is  nothing  there  of  that 
mystery  and  awe  which  Rembrandt  would  have  im- 
ported into  the  scene.  In  other  words,  though  Ver- 
meer was  neither  a poet  nor  a dramatist  and  had  no 
large  inventive  faculty,  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  man 
were  somehow  touched  to  a fine  issue  and  made  him 
a great  painter  in  more  than  a technical  sense.  He 
raised  the  every-day  motives  of  common  life  to  a 
higher  power,  glorified  them  by  sincerity  and  truth, 
and  set  them  apart  by  the  singular  strength  and 
beauty  of  his  style.  One  of  the  salient  virtues  of 
Vermeer  is  the  rounded  maturity  of  his  work.  We 
have  nothing  tentative  of  his,  no  experimental  or 
roughly  finished  pictures,  unless  we  except  the  por- 
trait of  a young  girl  discovered  by  Dr.  Bredius  in  a 
private  collection  at  Brussels  several  years  ago,  and 
the  looser  handling  in  this  may  easily  have  been  in- 
tentional. In  any  case,  the  distinguishing  mark  in  a 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


7 1 


painting  by  Vermeer  is  one  of  a man  knowing  just 
what  he  wants  to  do  and  doing  it  with  equal  ease, 
force  and  completeness. 

He  was  truly  one  of  the  artists  who  are  born,  not 
made.  What  would  we  not  give  to  know  him  better, 
to  realize  the  man  in  his  habit  as  he  lived!  But  so 
closely  were  the  fates  destined  to  keep  his  secret  that 
even  he  himself  would  seem  to  have  contributed  to 
our  discomfiture.  In  the  beautiful  painting  of  an  art- 
ist at  work  in  his  studio,  which  is  one  of  the  gems 
of  the  Czernin  collection  at  Vienna,  Vermeer  — if  it 
indeed  be  he  who  sits  at  the  easel  — turns  his  back 
upon  the  world. 


V 

CHARDIN  AND  ALFRED  STEVENS 

The  collector  of  oddities  in  the  history  of  the  things 
of  the  mind  may  find  something  to  his  hand  in  this 
matter  of  the  genius  of  mere  paint.  It  appears  to 
have  been  very  largely  a Northern  prerogative.  Ve- 
lasquez provides  the  only  salient  exception.  There 
are  others,  especially  in  Venice,  who  might  seem  to 
contradict  this  observation,  as  I have  thought  when 
studying,  for  example,  a picture  like  Titian’s  great 
“Entombment”  in  the  Louvre.  But  though  you 
find  brushwork  in  him  which  testifies,  in  a measure, 
to  a special  sensitiveness  to  the  qualities  of  pigment, 
it  is  on  the  whole  for  its  color  that  he  values  his 


72 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


paint.  Neither  in  Titian  nor  in  any  other  Italian 
master  do  we  recognize  that  recondite  flair  for  pig- 
ment which  I have  attempted  to  describe.  By  some 
turn  of  caprice,  that  seems  to  have  flourished  more 
in  the  North  than  in  the  South.  It  must  have  been 
pure  accident,  too,  an  affair  of  individual  fortune. 
Rembrandt,  Hals,  and  Vermeer  have  it,  but  for  some 
occult  reason  Rubens  and  Van  Dyck  miss  it.  This 
is  peculiarly  puzzling  where  Rubens  is  concerned,  for 
he  had  a headlong  brush  and  was  in  many  ways  a 
miraculous  technician.  Perhaps  it  was  some  inherent 
strain  of  coarseness  in  him  that  held  him  back.  Hals, 
who  did  not  possess  quite  his  glorious  sweep,  still  knew 
better  than  he  did  how  to  raise  brushwork  to  a higher 
power,  marrying  it  to  the  indefinable  magic  of  paint. 

Jean  Baptiste  Simeon  Chardin,  another  Northern 
type,  is  of  a characteristically  French  grain.  Born 
in  Paris  in  1699,  and  dying  there  eighty  years  later, 
he  spent  his  long  life  under  a regime  consecrated  to 
the  laws  of  taste.  His  father  was  a maker  of  billiard 
tables.  There  was  nothing  in  his  birth  or  upbringing 
to  assimilate  him  to  an  aristocratic  mode  of  thought, 
save  that  the  elder  Chardin  practised  his  craft  in  the 
service  of  the  King  and  so  was  in  a position  to  win 
courtly  patronage  for  his  son.  Jean  Baptiste,  trained 
to  the  art  of  the  painter  from  an  early  age,  was  des- 
tined to  profit  in  due  time  from  exceptional  social 
opportunities,  yet  even  when  he  was  selling  his  pic- 
tures to  kings  and  nobles  he  remained  the  same  sim- 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


73 


pie,  unspoiled  bourgeois.  He  cared  nothing  for  the 
frivolity  of  his  time  and  sturdily  resisted  all  that  was 
meretricious  in  its  elegant  artifice.  He  painted  chil- 
dren and  domestic  servants,  he  painted  still  life,  and 
in  the  art  of  the  period  he  looms  like  some  high- 
minded,  sterling  provincial  in  a Parisian  salon  or  bou- 
doir. It  would  not  be  quite  just  to  call  Chardin  an 
eighteenth-century  Vermeer.  He  is  too  much  his 
own  man.  Nevertheless  he  does  take  us  back  to  the 
early  Dutch  school,  through  his  wholesome  human 
tone,  his  manly  sincerity.  He  painted  little  subjects 
and  he  made  them  great.  The  painter  of  still  life 
often  errs  through  being  too  descriptive.  Like  Zola, 
piling  up  the  details  in  a mass  of  natural  objects,  he 
lingers  too  long  over  each  apple  or  peach  in  a basket 
of  fruit.  Chardin  saw  his  subject  as  a whole,  gave 
it  pictorial  unity,  and  through  the  distinction  of  his 
technique  made  it  beautiful.  Diderot,  pausing  before 
his  painting  of  some  plums,  hailed  him  as  the  great- 
est colorist  of  the  Salon  and  added  that  he  was  “per- 
haps one  of  the  greatest  colorists  in  the  whole  realm 
of  art.”  Criticism  long  since  confirmed  that  judg- 
ment and  it  has  come  to  regard  Chardin,  too,  as  one 
of  the  skilfullest  of  the  wizards  of  mere  painting. 

His  surfaces  are  as  delicate  as  Vermeer’s.  Suavity 
is,  indeed,  Chardin’s  leading  trait.  His  powerful 
sense  of  form  never  manifested  itself  in  any  exhibi- 
tions of  rude  strength.  There  is  something  which  I 
can  only  describe  as  endearing  about  his  figures, 


74 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


something  in  the  tender  touch  with  which  they  are 
outlined,  something  akin  to  the  sweet  sentiment  per- 
vading his  subject  pictures.  He  was  an  academician, 
like  every  other  eighteenth-century  French  painter 
of  ability,  but  he  worked,  from  no  rules  and  allowed 
no  hardness  of  convention  to  creep  into  his  style. 
His  conscientious  method  — which,  by  the  way,  has 
contributed  to  the  good  preservation  of  most  of  his 
works  — was  also  an  easy,  supple  method.  He  drew 
without  an  atom  of  self-consciousness,  firmly,  accu- 
rately, and  in  a free,  sensitive  manner.  He  drew  with 
the  brush,  using  the  breadth  and  the  generalizing  in- 
stinct of  the  true  painter,  and  line,  with  him,  is  finely 
subordinated  to  the  soft,  almost  atmospheric  effect 
of  the  whole  composition.  His  paint  is,  for  the  con- 
noisseur of  such  things,  as  subtly  delicious  and  intox- 
icating as  some  noble  old  vintage.  It  is  very  pure, 
it  has  substance  and  weight,  its  depths  have  mystery, 
and  all  the  time  it  is  an  exquisite  pearly  wonder,  a 
thing  of  bloom,  and,  I repeat,  of  magic.  There  is  a 
fashionable  cult  for  him  now.  The  ambitious  col- 
lector must  have  a Chardin  in  his  gallery,  regardless 
of  expense,  and  of  late  this  painter  has  become  por- 
tentously expensive.  But  this  new  vogue  of  his,  re- 
viving that  which  he  enjoyed  in  the  heyday  of  his 
career,  leaves  him,  just  the  same,  the  property  of  the 
painter  and  the  critic.  He  is  one  of  the  great  models 
of  technique,  one  of  those  masters  who  recall  us  to 
fundamental  principles. 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


75 


How  many  of  the  artists  of  our  modern  times  have 
responded  to  his  appeal?  How  many  have  taken 
their  point  of  departure,  not,  we  will  say,  from  Char- 
din alone,  but  from  that  whole  movement  which  in- 
cludes the  Dutchmen  I have  cited  and  Velasquez  as 
well  as  the  eighteenth-century  Frenchman?  The 
answer  may  justly  enough  be  made  prodigally  inclu- 
sive. This  magic  of  mere  paint  has  stirred  unnum- 
bered painters  to  ardent  emulation.  But  from  an- 
other point  of  view  the  historian  must  arrive  at  a far 
less  complacent  conclusion.  A few  modern  painters, 
but  only  a few,  have  come  within  a really  negotiable 
distance  of  recapturing  not  alone  the  old  adroitness 
but  the  old  perfection.  Manet,  with  his  splendid  di- 
rectness, and  Whistler,  with  his  exquisiteness,  both 
showed  that  they  were  not  unworthy  of  their  re- 
nowned predecessors.  But  the  one  modern  man  who 
by  instinct  came  perhaps  nearer  than  any  other  to 
reviving  the  ancient  spell  was  the  Belgian,  Alfred 
Stevens,  who  was  born  in  1828.  He  lived  in  Paris 
and  his  environment  exerted  a pressure  upon  him  of 
a certain  sort.  He  made  himself  the  interpreter  of 
Parisian  society  in  its  most  fashionable  aspects,  paint- 
ing the  frou-frou  of  the  Second  Empire  with  an  au- 
thority unassailed  by  any  of  his  clever  contempo- 
raries. He  saw  at  close  range  what  was  done  by  all 
of  the  groups,  Academic,  Romantic,  Impressionistic, 
and  so  on,  which  went  to  the  making  of  French  art 
in  the  nineteenth  century  and  extended  their  influ- 


76 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


ence  sooner  or  later  over  the  world.  But  Stevens 
kept  himself  to  himself,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  his  long  career,  and  even  the  ideas  which  he 
drew  from  Japanese  art  failed  to  swerve  him  from 
the  style  to  which  he  was  born.  That  was  a style 
rooted  in  the  honest  simplicity  of  the  old  Dutch 
school  and  in  that  same  passion  for  paint  which 
burned  in  the  soul  of  Vermeer.  He  is,  in  fact,  our 
modern  Vermeer,  achieving  in  the  works  of  his  prime 
a beauty  of  surface  almost  if  not  quite  comparable  to 
that  of  the  old  master.  I allude  specifically  to  the 
works  of  his  prime  because  Stevens  in  his  later  years 
terribly  declined,  and  numbers  of  his  pictures  painted 
then  are  deplorably  brittle  and  uninteresting.  When 
he  was  at  his  best  he  was  a magnificent  painter,  a 
man  who  in  his  technique,  whether  it  was  wreaked 
upon  the  figure  or  upon  furniture,  flowers,  and  other 
accessories,  made  pigment  in  and  for  itself  a thing 
of  sensuous  rapture. 

Stevens  thus  succeeded  because  he  had,  like  Ve- 
lasquez or  Vermeer,  the  divine  gift,  the  zest  for  paint 
that  comes  — and  comes  so  rarely!  — from  the  good 
fairies,  and  never  can  be  taught.  But  incommuni- 
cable as  the  magic  of  mere  paint  is,  it  is  not  the  appa- 
nage of  the  naive,  artless  painter.  From  the  biog- 
raphies of  the  masters  it  is  plain  that  they  thought, 
and  thought  hard,  about  what  they  were  doing.  Al- 
fred Stevens,  who  quite  well  understood  the  differ- 
ence between  painting  and  literature,  and  never  in 


The  Magic  of  Mere  Paint 


77 


his  life  was  in  the  smallest  danger  of  sacrificing  his 
technique  to  an  extraneous  motive,  has  a saying  in 
his  wise  “Impressions  sur  la  Peinture”  with  which  I 
like  to  bring  these  observations  to  a close.  “Une 
etincelle  de  lumiere,”  he  says,  “posee  sur  un  acces- 
soire  par  un  maitre  hollandais  ou  flamand,  est  plus 
qu’une  habilete  de  pinceau,  c’est  un  trait  d’esprit.” 


Contemporary  European  Painting 


IV 


CONTEMPORARY  EUROPEAN 
PAINTING 

I 

A generation  has  passed  since  Edouard  Manet 
painted  his  picture  of  “Le  Mendiant,”  a full-length 
portrait  of  a broken-down  old  blouse.  He  was  then  at 
the  height  of  his  unpopularity,  applauded  by  a few  of 
his  fellow  painters  and  defended  by  one  or  two  crit- 
ics, but  contemned  by  officialdom  in  French  art,  and 
laughed  at  by  the  public.  Some  time  ago  I saw  “Le 
Mendiant,”  hung  in  a place  of  honor  in  the  exhibition 
of  the  Secession  at  Berlin.  It  was  surrounded  by  the 
works  of  men  devoted  to  Manet’s  memory,  looking 
upon  him  as  one  of  the  great  liberators  of  modern 
painting  — if  not  the  greatest  of  them  all  — and 
feverishly  emulous  of  his  ideal  of  independence. 
With  so  much  zeal  had  the  young  Germans  served 
that  ideal  that  they  had  out-Heroded  Herod,  and 
made  Manet  look  like  a classic  lost  amongst  barba- 
rians. It  was  as  though  one  had  found  a drawing 
by  Ingres  in  a sheaf  of  caricatures  by  the  artists 
of  Montmartre,  or  a Greek  bust  amid  a group  of 

81 


82  Contemporary  European  Painting 


Rodin’s  most  audacious  sculptures.  It  was  like  turn- 
ing the  pages  of  an  anthology  and  finding  a poem 
of  Landor’s  on  the  same  page  with  one  of  Whit- 
man’s yawps.  It  was  like  a sudden  change  in  a 
musical  programme  from  a quartette  of  Beethoven’s 
to  a cacophonous  symphony  by  Richard  Strauss.  In 
short,  Manet  looked  in  this  gallery  like  a Samson 
among  the  Philistines.  Under  any  circumstances  the 
spectacle  would  invite  reflection  as  well  as  mirth,  but 
it  kept  recurring  to  my  mind  with  a special  point  as 
I travelled  over  Europe  looking  everywhere  for  “signs 
of  the  times”  in  the  art  of  painting.  Even  in  my 
peaceful  hours  with  the  old  masters  there  would 
come  back  the  tormenting  question,  — “What  have 
the  schools  made  of  the  liberty  of  which  they  are  so 
boastful?”  Before  I offer  an  answer  to  that  question 
I must  glance  briefly  at  the  situation  which  produced 
Manet. 

In  the  turmoil  of  the  Revolution,  French  art  lost 
its  hold  on  the  romantic  glamour  and  the  exquisite 
mundane  charm  of  Watteau  and  his  group.  Pro- 
ceeding to  put  its  house  in  order  under  the  Napole- 
onic regime,  it  accepted  the  guidance  of  David  and 
dedicated  itself  to  his  principle  of  classical  discipline. 
How  much  there  is  to  be  said  for  that  principle  was 
shown  when  a man  of  genius  arose  in  the  person  of 
Ingres,  a pupil  of  David’s,  equalling  his  master  in  the 
exploitation  of  the  grand  style,  and  surpassing  him 
in  draughtsmanship  and  feeling  for  beauty.  But  in 


Contemporary  European  Painting  83 


that  transitional  period  men  of  genius  were  rare,  and 
when,  presently,  in  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  they  began  to  come  to  the  surface,  they  found 
a large  body  of  Academicians,  of  very  unequal  merit, 
in  possession  of  the  field.  We  are  apt  to  underesti- 
mate the  value  of  the  academic  idea,  and  to  scorn  its 
exponents  as,  all  of  them,  necessarily  mediocre.  As 
a matter  of  fact  there  is  a distinction  not  to  be  de- 
spised about  the  work  of  men  like  Flandrin,  Amaury 
Duval,  Delaroche,  Chasseriau  and  the  rest,  and  In- 
gres, of  course,  is  a master.  But  we  must  not  pursue 
this  tempting  issue.  The  important  point  for  our 
present  purpose  is  that  a generation  of  artists  arose 
to  whom  temperament  was  everything,  the  classical 
hypothesis  a delusion  and  a snare,  and  nature  a mis- 
tress worth  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  in  the  aca- 
demic Pantheon.  Gericault  turned  his  back  upon 
antiquity  and  painted  “The  Wreck  of  the  Medusa.” 
Decamps  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  sit  in  a Paris 
studio,  painting  in  a gray  light,  while  he  could  go 
and  bathe  in  the  sun-saturated  colors  of  the  Orient. 
Corot,  Rousseau,  Daubigny,  and  Diaz,  all  looked  for 
a new  vein  in  landscape,  and  found  it.  Delacroix, 
being  born  a romanticist,  left  Greek  form  and  repose 
to  take  care  of  themselves  and  gave  passion  its  chance. 
Millet  preferred  a peasant  misshapen  by  toil  to  the 
fairest  vision  on  Olympus.  The  mere  enumeration 
of  these  names  is  enough  to  recall  historic  battles 
fought  and  won.  They  did  not,  however,  make  fur- 


84  Contemporary  European  Painting 


ther  conflicts  unnecessary.  On  the  contrary,  there 
was  much  work  left  for  even  more  drastic  innovators 
to  do. 

Manet  was  to  weary  of  the  routine  of  Couture’s 
studio,  and  instead  of  adding  to  the  statuesque  fig- 
ures painted  there,  was  to  scandalize  the  Academi- 
cians by  his  “ Olympia.”  Degas,  who  worshipped  In- 
gres and,  it  is  said,  still  goes  on  worshipping  him,  was 
to  turn  from  admiring  “La  Source”  and  to  use  what  it 
taught  him  in  the  realistic  delineation  of  laundresses, 
ballet-girls,  and  jockeys.  Whistler  was  to  enter  a 
world  of  which  Gleyre,  his  master,  knew  nothing,  and 
to  develop,  along  lines  of  his  own,  the  tonality  invented 
by  Velasquez.  Monet  was  to  show  that  the  Barbi- 
zon  school  had  hardly  grazed  the  problems  of  light. 
And  all  these  men  were  bent  upon  demonstrating 
what,  by  this  time,  needed  repeated  demonstration, 
that  the  great  thing  to  do  was  to  paint  well,  to  prac- 
tise a technique  expressing  the  very  soul  of  pigment. 
They  succeeded  in  their  aim.  They  extended  the 
boundaries  of  modern  art,  indicating  new  ways  of  using 
its  instruments,  and  they  are  to-day  the  recognized 
chiefs  of  the  more  progressive  painters  everywhere. 
What  Manet  meant  to  the  Berlin  Secessionists  when 
they  honored  him  after  the  fashion  I have  described, 
he  means  to  the  younger  generation  — and  to  many 
of  its  elders  — throughout  Europe,  in  England  and 
in  America.  Through  him  and  through  his  compan- 
ions the  painter  of  liberal  tendencies  feels  that  he 


Contemporary  European  Painting  85 


comes  into  touch  with  the  right  tradition,  the  tradi- 
tion of  Rembrandt,  of  Velasquez,  and  of  Hals.  There 
is  the  crucial  point,  — that  the  hater  of  academic  con- 
vention, the  lover  of  individuality  and  freedom,  has 
had  his  battle  fought  for  him,  that  he  is  able  to  do 
as  he  pleases  in  full  enjoyment  of  the  inspiration  once 
disdained,  as  that  of  1830  had  been  disdained,  but 
now  respected  even  where  it  is  not  adopted.  What 
is  the  result?  We  have  been  told  ad  nauseam  how 
the  public  and  the  critics  have  failed  to  do  justice 
to  Whistler,  for  example.  It  is  interesting  to  ask 
what  the  artists  have  done  to  prove  themselves  worthy 
of  him  and  his  old  comrades. 

In  France  the  Salon  remains,  on  the  whole,  the 
inviolable  stronghold  of  canonical  authority.  I well 
remember  the  organized  rebellion  which  led  to  the 
opening  of  the  Salon  of  the  Champs  de  Mars.  With 
what  jubilation  it  was  hailed!  At  the  time,  the  con- 
trast between  the  “new”  and  the  “old”  Salons  was 
really  striking,  and  there  was  a thrill  of  excitement 
to  be  got  out  of  the  quarrel.  I have  never  been  able 
to  recapture  that  thrill.  In  fact  I have  gone  through 
Salon  after  Salon  only  to  see  the  “new”  and  the  “old” 
little  by  little  settling  down  into  comfortable  harmony. 
French  art  rubs  along  in  the  good  old  way,  and  you 
may  look  at  thousands  of  the  pictures  now  being 
painted,  without  being  reminded  by  any  of  them  that 
Manet  “fought,  bled,  and  died”  for  the  cause.  If 
one  looked  foolishly  for  little  Manets  he  would  de- 


86  Contemporary  European  Painting 


serve  to  be  disappointed;  but  what  one  looks  for, 
of  course,  is  quite  another  thing,  — it  is  the  broad 
lesson  that  Manet  might  have  been  supposed  to  en- 
force, without  robbing  any  man  of  his  individuality, 
upon  those  who  praise  him  so  glibly.  It  is  never 
through  their  crass  imitators  that  the  masters  fertil- 
ize the  art  coming  after  them;  it  is  rather  through 
the  establishment  of  general  principles  that  they  make 
their  influence  felt.  Thus  it  is  reasonable  to  expect, 
when  Manet  is  a name  to  conjure  with,  a deep  gen- 
eral interest  in  simplicity,  in  the  direct  handling  of 
pure  color,  in  the  bold  and  truthful  manipulation  of 
values.  But  to  expect  these  things  is  to  expect  a 
little  too  much,  in  Paris.  I speak,  of  course,  of  French 
art  in  the  mass,  and  there  is  the  more  reason  for  so 
doing  as  the  individualities  of  the  moment  are  neither 
numerous  enough  nor,  apparently,  potent  enough,  to 
leaven  the  lump. 

Smart  dexterity  is  at  a premium,  and  the  instinct 
for  beauty  seems  to  have  lost  a good  deal  of  its  vital- 
ity, when  it  has  not  suffered  absolute  atrophy.  The 
average  French  picture  suggests  that  modern  taste  has 
been  transformed  into  a part  of  the  nervous  system 
and  is  concerned  altogether  with  sensation,  not  with 
principle.  The  outcome  is  work  of  a rather  vulgar 
cast,  vulgar  both  in  substance  and  in  style.  What  sur- 
vives that  is  ingratiating  in  the  bulk  of  French  paint- 
ing is  the  purely  professional  quality,  that  can  be 
acquired  by  reasonable  application  in  the  schools;  on 


Contemporary  European  Painting  87 


all  sides  we  see  the  fruit  of  methodical  teaching  at- 
tentively followed.  The  salonnier  knows  how  to  put 
his  great  “machine”  together,  — his  mere  craftsman- 
ship is  a credit  to  him.  But  it  is  too  often  void  of 
any  serious  significance.  I cannot  see  that  there  has 
been  any  wide-spread  improvement  in  the  handling 
of  form  as  form,  any  happy  loosening  of  the  bonds 
created  as  though  by  an  impersonal  government  and 
bearing  a government  stamp.  The  majority  are  faith- 
ful to  the  immemorial,  competent,  but  humdrum 
method  of  the  big  overcrowded  ateliers  to  which  the 
young  idea  comes,  in  hundreds,  to  be  taught  how  to 
shoot.  Looking  at  one  canvas  after  another  the  in- 
quirer murmurs,  “Was  it  for  this  that  the  heroes  of 
the  Salon  des  Refuses  did  their  best  to  augment  the 
language  of  art?”  Similarly  he  asks,  in  the  presence 
of  most  of  those  huge  decorations  which  the  French 
so  generously  order  for  their  public  buildings,  “Was 
it  for  this  that  Puvis  de  Chavannes  wrought  out  his 
noble  conception  of  mural  painting?” 

In  form  and  in  design,  then,  French  art  is  station- 
ary. Such  gains  as  have  been  made  have  been  largely 
in  respect  to  the  treatment  of  light,  a fact  pointing 
to  the  greater  influence  of  Monet  than  of  any  of  his 
colleagues.  Impressionism  has  filtered  its  way  down 
into  modern  painting,  and  the  younger  men  have 
learned  the  value  of  sunlight,  if  they  have  learned 
nothing  else,  from  the  revolutionists  of  the  sixties  and 
seventies.  Not  so  many  of  them,  on  the  other  hand, 


88  Contemporary  European  Painting 


have  known  just  what  to  do  with  their  new  resource; 
they  do  not  create,  they  mark  time.  Only  here  and 
there  among  the  French  has  the  precious  lesson  re- 
sulted in  a rich  addition  to  contemporary  art.  It  is 
not  the  rule,  but  the  exception,  to  find  work  as  de- 
lightful as  that  of  Henri  Martin,  one  of  the  most 
engaging  talents  which  have  appeared  in  a long  time. 
He  has  a charming  decorative  vein,  and  in  the  lumi- 
nous quality  of  his  canvases,  which  is  a chief  element 
in  their  appeal,  you  can  see  that  he  has  profited  in 
the  right  way  by  the  example  of  his  seniors.  He  has 
a note  of  his  own,  thus  emphasizing  my  contention 
that  one  does  not  need  to  imitate  in  order  to  make 
use  of  what  Monet  and  his  colleagues  brought  into 
modern  painting. 

Even  more  exhilarating  testimony  on  this  head  is 
offered  by  the  salient  figure  now  at  work  in  the  school, 
Albert  Besnard.  He  is  the  one  man  the  French  have 
who  not  only  has  something  to  say  but  says  it  in  a 
fresh  and  powerful  manner.  He  has  been  the  better 
for  having  shared  in  the  later  impressionistic  move- 
ment, but,  with  the  authority  of  the  true  artist,  he 
has  subdued  to  his  own  purposes  whatever  has  been 
suggested  to  him  by  others.  Many  years  ago  a comrade 
hurried  me  in  a frenzy  of  enthusiasm  half  across  Paris 
to  see  Besnard’s  decorations  in  the  Ecole  de  Phar- 
macie,  then  recently  completed.  It  was  a dark,  rainy 
day,  but  one  forgot  the  gloom  in  contemplation  of 
Besnard’s  ebullient  nervous  force  and  robust  color. 


Contemporary  European  Painting  89 


He  was  always  a colorist,  and  as  the  years  have  passed 
he  has  used  the  language  of  color  with  more  and  more 
sinewy  strength,  with  more  and  more  fire.  Inciden- 
tally he  has  given  freer  play  to  his  imagination.  He 
was  a realist  pure  and  simple  when  he  did  the  panels 
in  the  Ecole  de  Pharmacie;  now  he  is  a poet  as  well, 
a standing  rebuke  to  those  narrow-minded  artists 
who  fancy  that  their  technique  will  go  to  pieces  if  they 
permit  themselves  the  expression  of  an  idea.  What 
I like  best  about  him,  though,  better  than  his  color 
by  itself,  or  his  decorative  gift  by  itself,  or  his  work- 
manship by  itself,  is  the  virility  with  which  every- 
thing in  his  art  is  fused  into  a rich,  brilliant  chord. 

Besnard  is  a “first-class  man,”  a master  of  form,  of 
light  and  air,  of  style.  But  you  will  look  far  in  France 
before  you  will  find  another  Besnard.  Beside  him  a 
man,  say,  like  the  late  Gaston  Latouche,with  his  golden 
glow,  his  vaporous  stained-glass  effects,  seems  just  a 
clever  dealer  in  artifice.  That  is  the  prevailing  note 
in  Paris.  For  one  man  whose  work  is,  like  Besnard’s, 
“of  the  centre,”  you  have  scores,  hundreds,  who  are 
facile  and  sometimes  even  accomplished,  but,  in  the 
grain  of  their  work,  incurably  factitious.  They  have 
made  no  better  use  of  the  freedom  from  formula,  won 
by  Manet  and  the  others,  than  to  put  more  formulas 
— usually  very  hollow  ones  — in  the  foreground.  Lit- 
tle groups  are  formed,  each  one  devoted  to  the  un- 
folding of  a trick  which  some  new  man  has  made 
temporarily  popular.  They  wax  and  wane,  and  you 


90  Contemporary  European  Painting 


wonder  why  they  ever  flourished  at  all.  A sensation 
is  made  at  the  Salon,  not  by  an  honest  piece  of  paint- 
ing with  an  original  accent,  but  by  some  prismatic 
audacity  having  no  relation  to  nature,  by  some  purely 
arbitrary  scheme  of  chiaroscuro,  or,  as  in  one  case 
that  I have  in  mind,  by  a return  to  the  “brown  sauce” 
of  certain  old  masters  for  which  Manet  had  such  a 
loathing.  There  has  been  some  provocation  for  these 
pseudo-original  experiments  in  the  public  success  of 
certain  artists.  Rodin,  taking  his  cue  from  Michael 
Angelo,  seeks  to  make  a figure  emerge  like  an  exhala- 
tion from  the  marble  block.  His  disciples  immedi- 
ately proceed  to  make  their  figures  “emerge,”  forget- 
ting that  the  main  thing  is  to  show,  as  Rodin  has 
shown,  that  as  your  figure  comes  out  you  must  justify 
it  by  strong  modelling.  He  is  apt  at  writhing  bodies, 
carrying  the  note,  in  his  later  work,  to  absurd  lengths. 
The  writhings  and  contortions  are  accepted  as  hav- 
ing something  talismanic  about  them,  and  as  being 
certain  to  sell,  and  they  are  served  up  by  any  num- 
ber of  dabsters  with  an  effrontery  that  would  be  dis- 
gusting if  it  were  not  funny. 

Constantin  Meunier,  the  Belgian  sculptor,  having 
done  interesting  work  in  the  realistic  portrayal  of 
working  men,  it  seems  to  have  occurred  to  many  art- 
ists that  all  they  need  to  do  in  order  to  “make  the 
bourgeois  sit  up”  is  to  model  ugly  types  of  labor,  — 
it  does  not  matter  if  there  is  not  an  ounce  of  Meunier’s 
power  in  the  modelling.  In  painting,  one  of  the  most 


Contemporary  European  Painting  91 


pernicious  exemplars  was  the  late  Eugene  Carriere, 
who  long  ago  attracted  favorable  attention,  and  in 
some  quarters  incited  silly  panegyrics,  by  his  studies 
of  figures  enveloped  in  a dark,  smoky  mist.  His  por- 
traits and  types  of  maternal  sentiment  were  pleasing, 
for  a time.  Then  they  wore  out  their  welcome.  He 
overdid  his  formula  until  he  left  it  a formula  and 
nothing  more.  But  the  mischief  had  been  done;  he 
had  helped  to  confirm  the  unthinking  in  the  notion 
that  a picturesque  surface  effect  may  legitimately  be 
used  over  and  over  again  for  its  own  sake,  that  nature 
may  be  forced  into  a pattern.  France  is  now  engaged 
in  the  making  of  such  patterns  to  an  enormous  ex- 
tent. Clever  mediocrity,  the  characteristic  product 
of  our  age,  momentarily  catches  the  eye,  but  leaves 
no  lasting  impression.  At  a time  when  the  artist  is 
nothing  if  not  individual,  there  is  an  extraordinary 
lack  of  really  significant  individuality. 

Signor  Alfredo  Melani,  in  an  article  on  the  works 
of  art  at  a Milan  exhibition  included  in  my  travels, 
described  them  as  “the  triumph  of  the  young  men,” 
and  spoke  in  fervid  terms  of  “this  artistic  youthful- 
ness which  is  no  longer  wasted  in  academic  formulas, 
but  pursues  its  ways  with  courage,  sure  of  the  strength 
which  dwells  in  its  independence.”  The  italics  are  mine. 
It  was  for  that  that  I searched,  the  strength  which 
dwells  in  independence.  I saw  the  Milan  exhibition, 
and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I did  not  discover  any  great 
stores  of  strength  among  Signor  Melani ’s  young  men. 


92  Contemporary  European  Painting 


No  doubt  they  have,  as  he  says,  “buried  the  academic 
once  for  all,”  but  the  question  is,  What  have  they  put 
in  its  place?  They  have  put  the  craze  of  the  moment, 
cleverness,  cleverness,  always  cleverness,  the  same 
sort  of  thing  that  reigns  in  other  countries,  the  same 
straining  after  effect  that  we  have  seen  in  Paris,  the 
same  contortions  of  the  sibyl  without  the  oracle. 
There  is  technique  in  the  South,  but  it  is  technique 
without  style. 

I was  especially  struck  by  two  rooms,  one  occupied 
by  Ettore  Tito  and  the  other  by  a group  calling  them- 
selves “Young  Etruria.”  Tito  has  “arrived,”  he  is 
one  of  the  popular  leaders.  I recollect  seeing  at  one 
of  the  international  exhibitions  in  Venice  some  of  his 
earlier  things,  and  looking  for  his  work  thereafter 
with  curiosity,  — it  seemed  likely  to  bring  pleasant 
surprises.  But  at  Milan,  where  I encountered  both 
old  and  new  paintings  by  him,  he  seemed  to  have 
risen,  after  all,  little  above  the  ordinary  level  of  the 
Salon.  “Young  Etruria,”  highly  resolved  to  spurn 
that  level,  had  nothing  more  to  brag  of  than  the  pi- 
quancy of  youth,  and  made  the  observer  wonder  very 
hard  if  anything  of  substantial  worth  would  come  of 
its  febrile  strivings.  The  room  was  prettily  deco- 
rated and  furnished,  — raising  a point  to  which  we 
shall  have  to  return,  — but  I could  find  in  it  no  prom- 
ise of  genius.  That  was  the  trouble  with  the  whole 
show.  It  had  one  merit.  It  promised  the  ultimate, 
and  perhaps  speedy,  disappearance  of  the  old  petty, 


Contemporary  European  Painting  93 


brittle  style  of  the  days  when  Fortuny  was  adored, 
and  feebly  imitated,  without  any  comprehension  of 
what  really  made  him  adorable,  in  Rome  and  Naples. 
A broader  convention  is  coming  into  vogue.  Unfor- 
tunately it  does  not  appear  to  have  brought  out  an 
artist  of  the  first  rank. 

There  was  in  the  grounds  at  Milan,  by  the  way,  a 
special  little  exhibition  of  works  by  Segantini,  that 
painter  of  the  Brianza  who  found,  as  Millet  had  found 
before  him,  a poetic  inspiration  in  the  humblest  mo- 
tives of  rustic  life.  Like  every  man  of  talent  in  this 
epoch  of  frantic  publicity,  he  has  had  some  prodigious 
eulogiums  pronounced  upon  his  art.  Well,  he  is  not 
one  of  the  giants.  I have  seen  his  pictures  again  and 
again,  and  it  occurred  to  me  as  I saw  them  in  Milan, 
as  it  had  occurred  to  me  when  I saw  them  in  the 
Paris  Exposition  of  1900,  that  they  do  not  wear  any 
too  well.  The  hard,  grainy  surface  of  his  big  Alpine 
landscapes  — too  big,  I think,  since  mere  bulk  of 
canvas  will  not  suffice  to  express  the  atmosphere  of 
the  mountains  — throws  off  nothing  of  that  impal- 
pable charm  of  beauty  which  is  the  great  secret  of 
eternal  freshness  in  art.  But  Segantini,  if  only  by 
the  force  of  contrast,  seemed  a grievous  loss  to  Ital- 
ian painting.  At  least  he  had  a large  way  of  looking 
at  his  subject,  a fine  sincerity,  and  a complete  inca- 
pacity for  being  simply  clever.  There  was  something 
that  made  for  sardonic  amusement  in  the  fact  that 
Bistolfi’s  monument  to  his  memory,  visible  in  the 


94  Contemporary  European  Painting 


same  pavilion,  showed  a nude  female  “ emerging,”  a 
la  Rodin,  out  of  a huge  block  of  marble.  It  is  won- 
derfully well  done.  Bistolfi  knows  his  craft.  But 
one  thought  neither  of  him  nor  of  Segantini,  but  of 
the  French  sculptor,  not  of  an  idea  or  a style,  but  of 
a fashion. 

It  is  a time  of  small  things  in  the  North,  as  in  the 
South.  Menzel  has  left  no  successor  in  Germany,  nor 
has  he  exercised  an  appreciable  influence  upon  his 
countrymen.  The  latter  pay  him  all  possible  tribute. 
You  come  across  his  works  in  all  the  museums,  and 
there  has  been  published  in  Munich  a superbly  illus- 
trated volume  of  his  productions,  a monumental  kind 
of  catalogue.  But  I wondered  as  I turned  its  pages 
why  so  few  of  the  young  Germans  seemed  to  have 
sat  at  his  feet.  An  artist  like  Menzel  proclaims  at 
once  an  inimitable  individual  style,  and  broad  fruc- 
tifying principles,  but  for  all  the  good  he  has  done 
to  modern  German  art  Menzel  might  just  as  well 
not  have  existed.  A group  of  paintings  and  studies 
by  him  in  the  retrospective  wing  of  the  Berlin  Salon 
formed  as  curiously  suggestive  an  episode  there  as 
was  formed  by  Manet’s  picture  in  the  show  of  the 
Secession.  Of  course  there  is,  in  the  last  resort,  no 
accounting  for  the  richness  or  the  poverty  of  a coun- 
try in  great  artists,  A man  is  born  a genius  or  a 
journeyman,  and  there’s  an  end  to  it.  Nevertheless, 
an  influence  is  an  influence,  and  it  is  hard  to  see  why, 
with  Menzel  in  their  midst,  the  Germans  have  gone 


Contemporary  European  Painting  95 


on  painting  in  a state  of  utter  blindness  to  the  rudi- 
mentary lessons  he  was  all  the  time  teaching  them. 
There  hung  in  the  Berlin  Salon  a painting  by  him  of 
a falcon  and  another  bird,  fighting  furiously  in  the 
sky.  It  was  painted  in  1843,  and  I dare  saY  it  has 
been  seen  in  the  long  years  that  have  elapsed  since 
then  by  thousands  of  native  artists.  It  is  a master- 
piece of  movement,  of  texture,  of  draughtsmanship, 
and,  I had  almost  said,  of  color.  It  is  so  painted  that 
he  who  runs  may  read.  The  simple  demonstration 
that  this  picture  gives  of  the  way  in  which  to  go  to 
work  with  your  brushes  might  at  least  tell  a youth 
what,  roughly,  to  try  for.  But  the  sense  of  the  Ger- 
man is  sealed.  He  continues  to  fill  his  canvas  with 
crude  garish  color  and  turgid  drawing.  As  for  beauty, 
for  sensuous  charm,  for  grace  and  subtlety,  they  have 
suffered  unmitigated  shipwreck.  This  is  a hard  say- 
ing, yet  it  is  borne  out  to  the  bitter  end  by  the  docu- 
ments of  the  case.  Go  to  any  of  the  permanent  gal- 
leries. Their  treasures  of  earlier  European  painting 
have  been  gathered  with  remarkable  judgment,  and 
they  are  splendidly  arranged.  The  Berlin  Gallery 
is  a triumph  of  installation  and  administration;  no- 
where, not  in  Vienna,  in  Paris,  in  London,  will  you 
find  the  old  masters  more  effectively  assembled  and 
displayed.  But  enter  the  rooms  devoted  to  the  mod- 
erns, the  natives,  and  your  heart  sinks  into  your 
boots,  dismayed  by  the  tastelessness  and  dulness  of 
what  you  see.  Now  and  then  some  one  has  appeared 


g6  Contemporary  European  Painting 


to  shame  the  men  in  the  ruck,  — a genius  like  Men- 
zel,  a portrait-painter  almost  a genius,  like  Lenbach, 
or  men  of  talent  such  as  Liebermann  and  Leibl. 
For  the  rest,  the  mission  of  the  German  painters  seems 
to  have  been  to  set  the  teeth  of  the  connoisseur  on 
edge. 

It  has  been  the  proud  boast  of  the  Secessionists 
that  they  have  changed  all  this,  and  at  Munich  es- 
pecially their  large  claim  is  upheld  by  sympathetic 
foreigners  to  the  extent  of  exhibiting  with  them.  The 
final  justification  of  the  claim  is,  however,  another 
matter.  It  is  true  that  the  Secessionists  have,  like 
the  young  Italians,  “buried  the  academic  once  for 
all.”  It  is  true  that  they  are  broad  in  method  where 
the  majority  are  niggling.  It  is  true  that  they  have 
ideas,  of  a sort;  an  ambition  to  be  imaginative  and 
poetic,  if  not  the  actual  power  to  be  the  one  or  the 
other;  a desire  to  rise  above  the  stupid  painting  of 
sentimental  subjects.  It  is  true,  finally,  that  they 
are  often  very  clever.  But  they  are  afflicted  with  a 
deplorable  earthiness,  a downright  coarseness,  which, 
apart  from  all  question  of  subject,  reacts  upon  the 
whole  fabric  of  their  art.  Consider  again,  for  a mo- 
ment, that  apparition  of  Manet  among  the  Berlin 
Secessionists.  His  ‘ £ Mendiant  ’ ’ is  certainly  not  a beau- 
tiful figure,  but  just  for  that  reason  it  the  more  aptly 
illuminates  our  situation.  It  is  a beautiful  piece  of 
painting.  The  color  is  fine,  the  facture  is  masterly, 
the  style  is  distinguished.  Truth  is  here,  if  ever 


Contemporary  European  Painting  97 


truth  was  set  upon  canvas,  but  it  is  truth  made  beau- 
tiful by  art.  All  around  it  the  Secessionists  riot  in 
nerveless  brutal  drawing,  in  gaudy  or  morbid  color, 
in  thick  opaque  tone,  and  in  the  most  dubious  taste. 
Like  the  Young  Etrurians  they  are  sublime  in  furnish- 
ings. Whistler’s  notion  of  hanging  a gallery  with 
some  light  stuff  has  taken  them  captive.  Like  him, 
they  are  fastidious  in  frames  and  battens.  In  the 
disposition  of  “aesthetic”  chairs  and  settees,  with  bay- 
trees  for  the  middle  of  the  room  or  in  the  corners, 
they  are  beyond  reproach.  In  some  German  exhibi- 
tion I found  a fountain  containing  water  colored  a 
blue  to  disconcert  the  Mediterranean,  — it  was  the 
last  word  of  decorative  ingenuity.  Unhappily  these 
things  are  as  naught  if  the  pictures  on  the  walls  are 
poor.  Not  all  the  pearly  backgrounds  in  the  world 
will  pull  an  exhibition  through  if  the  painters  bring 
raucous  reds  and  greens,  unspeakable  yellows  and 
blues,  to  the  making  of  their  pictures. 

Franz  Stuck,  the  hero  of  the  Secessionist  movement, 
is  a strange  type.  He  has  a warm  imagination  and  a 
remarkable  pictorial  faculty.  You  could  not  look  at 
his  “Dead  Christ”  or  at  his  “Bacchanale”  without  feel- 
ing that  the  painter  had  a temperament,  an  outlook 
peculiar  to  himself.  The  “Bacchanale,”  a night  scene 
with  the  rout  alone  illuminated,  the  pillared  porch 
in  the  foreground  and  the  murk  of  trees  in  the  dis- 
tance being  in  romantic  shadow,  was  in  intention, 
at  least,  a thing  of  poetic  emotion.  But  in  these  pic- 


98  Contemporary  European  Painting 


tures,  as  in  many  others  I have  seen,  Stuck  loses  all 
the  lyric  charm  at  which  he  aims,  or  all  the  tragic 
force  which  is  more  often  his  ambition,  through  harsh 
drawing  and  modelling  and  through  color  that  I can 
only  describe  as  livid  when  it  is  not  blatant.  He  is 
representative.  After  overhauling  the  works  of  the 
Secessionists  from  end  to  end,  you  come  to  the  sor- 
rowful conclusion  that  they  do  not  understand  color 
at  all.  Neither,  for  that  matter,  have  they  any  true 
sense  of  form.  In  both  respects  it  is  a coarseness  of 
fibre  that  seems  to  tell  against  them,  a coarseness 
that  belongs  alike  to  the  weakest  and  the  strongest 
of  the  technicians  among  them.  Their  nudes  are  the 
nudest  things  in  modern  art.  It  does  not  matter  with 
what  dainty  idea  they  start.  Like  Arnold  Bocklin, 
the  Swiss  painter,  whose  overrated  work  is  much  liked 
in  Germany,  they  will  invent  a good  design,  with  a 
delicate  idea  at  its  core,  and  then  keep  it  from  ma- 
king its  full  effect  by  using  colors  brilliant  but  without 
quality,  and  making  their  contours  as  inelastic  as  lead. 
Secession  and  Salon  alike  are  thus  heavy-handed.  It 
is  the  national  trait  in  art.  There  was  reason  enough 
for  the  outcry  in  Berlin  over  the  statuary  of  Kaiser 
Wilhelm’s  Sieges-Allee.  It  is  fearsome  stuff.  But 
there  is  nothing  exceptional  about  it.  You  find  stat- 
uary like  it  all  over  Germany. 

English  art,  official  English  art,  stands  just  where 
it  has  stood  these  many  years,  and  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy is  lucky  inasmuch  as  it  can  count  upon  the  work 


Contemporary  European  Painting  99 


of  one  foreign  master  for  its  annual  exhibitions.  I 
once  met  an  artist  friend  on  the  steps  of  Burlington 
House.  Each  wondered  what  in  the  world  the  other 
was  doing  there,  — if  he  was  in  search  of  pleasurable 
artistic  sensations.  I had  just  been  in  to  see  Sar- 
gent’s contribution.  He  was  going  in  for  the  same 
purpose.  I thought  of  him  on  the  pilgrimage  I am 
describing  when  I saw  once  more  that  without  Sar- 
gent the  Academy  would  be  an  overwhelming  bore. 
What  is  it  made  of  ? Furlongs  of  canvas  without 
any  elements  of  interest  whatever.  Laboriously  built- 
up  compositions,  historical,  sentimental,  “conscien- 
tious” beyond  words,  and  ineffably  flat.  Gaudy, 
pompous  portraits.  Commonplace  landscapes.  At 
long  intervals  a creditable  piece  of  painting,  strayed 
in  as  if  by  accident,  but  in  general  a disheartening 
mass  of  mediocre  routine  work.  Criticism  beats  in 
vain  against  that  fortress  of  reaction.  There  is  some- 
thing pathetic  and  droll  about  the  efforts  made  to 
disturb  its  inertia.  One  thinks  of  Sidney  Smith  and 
the  boy  who  scratched  the  turtle’s  back  to  give  it 
pleasure.  “You  might  as  well  stroke  the  dome  of 
St.  Paul’s  to  please  the  dean  and  chapter.”  What 
does  the  Academy  make  of  Mr.  Sargent?  What  did 
it  make  of  the  late  Charles  W.  Furse,  who  was  an 
Associate  when  he  died?  Such  artists  must  be  very 
embarrassing.  Furse,  like  two  or  three  others,  seems 
an  anomaly  in  the  Tate  Gallery,  where  two  of  his 
pictures  hang,  one  of  them  having  been  purchased 


ioo  Contemporary  European  Painting 


under  the  terms  of  the  Chan  trey  Bequest  since  his 
death.  This  large  picture,  “The  Return  from  the 
Ride,”  gives  an  excellent  idea  of  what  the  new  school 
in  England  has  been  doing.  It  represents  a young 
man  on  horseback,  with  a woman  in  flowing  light 
modern  dress  walking  by  his  side.  The  group  is  set 
against  a landscape  background,  loosely  painted  and 
full  of  light  and  air.  The  canvas  breathes  energy 
and  a passion  for  fresh,  outdoor  beauty.  It  is  painted 
with  knowledge  and  ease,  and  it  discloses  an  original, 
sincere  temperament.  There  are  not  many  painters 
in  England  to-day  who  give,  as  Furse  gives,  the  im- 
pression of  having  taken  advantage  of  the  best  de- 
velopments in  nineteenth-century  art,  and  of  having 
“found  themselves”  into  the  bargain.  But  there  are 
enough  of  them  to  raise  lively  hopes  of  English  art, 
unofficial  English  art. 

If  it  is  a question  of  hopes  rather  than  of  present 
realization,  it  is  because  the  school  seems  to  be  going 
through  a period  of  transition,  and  in  so  eclectic  a 
mood  as  to  be  a little  uncertain  as  to  its  best  course. 
It  has  been  learning  from  Manet  and  from  Monet; 
one  of  its  most  interesting  figures,  Charles  Shannon, 
appears  to  have  started  under  the  influence  of  Legros, 
and  to  have  since  ranged  pretty  freely  among  the  old 
masters;  and  then  there  are,  of  course,  the  adherents 
of  Whistler.  These  last,  to  be  sure,  like  so  many  of 
their  fellows  in  America,  and,  for  that  matter,  through- 
out Europe,  have  often  an  odd  way  of  missing  the 


Contemporary  European  Painting  ioi 


point.  Mr.  A.  Ludovici,  describing  that  quaint  epi- 
sode in  Whistler’s  career,  his  presidency  of  the  Society 
of  British  Artists,  tells  how  seriously  the  veterans  of 
Suffolk  Street  took  their  new  leader’s  reforms  in  the 
matter  of  hanging.  Instead  of  being  happy  because 
pictures  were  confined  to  the  fine,  they  murmured  at 
the  financial  loss  they  saw  in  mere  empty  space. 
They  calculated  that  the  square  feet  wasted  around 
one  of  Whistler’s  own  pictures  were  potentially  worth 
£400  to  the  Society.  The  anecdote  is  not  out  of 
date.  Many  of  Whistler’s  followers,  who  fondly  be- 
lieve they  are  treading  in  his  path,  are  as  busy  over 
trifles  and  as  blind  to  essentials  as  were  the  malcon- 
tents of  the  British  artists.  They  “go  in”  for  Whist- 
lerian “arrangements,”  for  the  careful  spacing  of  the 
composition,  for  an  esoteric  disposition  of  light  and 
of  accessories.  Meanwhile,  they  overlook  the  one 
thing  of  transcendent  importance  that  Whistler  had 
to  teach  them,  the  beauty  to  be  got  out  of  consum- 
mately manipulated  tone.  That  is  a thing  absolutely 
independent  of  the  design,  the  motive,  of  a given  pic- 
ture. With  it  Whistler  would  still  have  been  Whistler 
though  he  had  made  the  famous  portrait  of  his  mother 
as  anecdotic  a painting  as  any  that  ever  drew  crowds 
in  the  Royal  Academy.  It  is  the  quality  of  his  sur- 
face that  counts  first,  the  quality  of  his  color  and 
tone.  He  chose  to  adopt  the  kind  of  composition 
that  we  see  in  his  portraits  and  nocturnes,  because  it 
was  suited  to  his  character  as  an  artist.  His  disciples, 


102  Contemporary  European  Painting 


to  whom  it  is  often  not  natural  at  all,  go  on  using  it 
with  a childlike  confidence  in  its  efficacy,  and  very 
rarely  reveal  any  flair  for  his  tonal  virtues.  It  is  the 
old  story  of  borrowing  a formula  for  the  sake  of  a 
formula,  to  which  I have  had  to  allude  more  than 
once.  The  surface  idea  is  caught;  the  central  inspi- 
ration is  missed.  Sargent’s  example  is  misunderstood 
in  the  same  way.  A trick  of  brushwork  is  all  that  is 
developed  by  the  innumerable  portrait-painters  who 
try  to  follow  his  lead.  Yet  it  is  precisely  his  freedom 
from  mere  trickery  that  accounts  for  his  eminence. 

Sargent’s  big  group  portrait  of  Dr.  Osier  and  three 
of  his  colleagues,  for  Johns  Hopkins  University, 
loomed  in  the  Royal  Academy  as  a giant  looms 
among  pygmies.  It  is  a masterpiece  worthy  of  the 
historical  periods.  Painted  largely  in  blacks  and  on 
an  imposing  scale,  it  involved  the  solution  of  a prob- 
lem beset  with  heartrending  difficulties,  yet  there  was 
not  an  inch  of  it  that  hinted  at  hesitancy  or  effort. 
The  simple  broad  surfaces  have  a splendid  quality, 
which  time  will  only  improve.  The  interesting  heads 
are  modelled  with  a combination  of  learning  and  spon- 
taneity almost  unique  in  contemporary  painting. 
Sargent  is,  indeed,  the  master  of  them  all,  towering 
above  the  painters  of  his  time  everywhere.  But  how 
many  of  his  juniors  listen  to  what  he  has  to  tell 
them?  How  many,  looking  at  this  wonderful  piece 
of  portraiture  in  the  Academy,  paused  to  think  of 
the  hard  work  concealed  beneath  the  stately  unity? 


Contemporary  European  Painting  103 


How  many,  in  the  effort  to  profit  by  the  inspiration 
to  be  found  in  the  work  of  a great  leader,  go  really 
to  the  heart  of  the  matter? 

I suppose  the  foregoing  pages  have  something  of 
the  air  of  a jeremiad,  and  that  they  could  be  “an- 
swered” by  an  interminable  list  of  Europeans  who 
paint,  as  painting  goes,  very  well.  I could  compose 
such  an  answer  myself.  But  it  would  be  beside  the 
point.  When  all  is  said,  it  is  not  sufficient  that  a 
man  should  paint  very  well,  as  painting  goes,  if  we 
are  to  take  him  seriously.  It  is  not  sufficient,  that  a 
clever  student,  having  won  golden  opinions  from  his 
instructor,  should  go  on  indefinitely  producing  clever 
student’s  work.  The  brilliantly  executed  morceau,  no 
matter  how  brilliant,  is,  after  all,  only  a morceau; 
it  may  be  the  beginning,  it  is  certainly  not  the  end 
of  art.  What  we  want  is  work  with  brains  and  in- 
dividuality in  it,  new  minted  work,  alive  and  beauti- 
ful, and  quivering  with  emotion.  It  is  comforting  to 
know  that  hundreds  of  painters  can  win  their  way 
into  the  exhibitions.  The  great  thing  is  that,  having 
got  there,  each  of  them  should  be  able  to  present 
a really  interesting  reason  for  his  presence. 

II 

In  modern  painting  new  “movements”  are  invented 
overnight.  How  few  of  them  have  any  staying  power, 
or  do  anything  really  to  change  for  the  better  those 


104  Contemporary  European  Painting 


systems  and  groups  that  have  long  held  the  field!  I 
have  recently  been  checking  up  in  Europe  the  impres- 
sions of  contemporary  painting  noted  in  the  first  chap- 
ter of  this  essay.  I could  not  discover  that  anything 
constructive,  anything  truly  progressive  had  been  done. 
On  the  contrary,  in  Paris,  the  vaunted  clearing-house 
of  new  artistic  ideas,  destruction  and  stagnation  seemed 
the  prevailing  influences.  There  was,  for  example,  an 
exhibition  of  the  Italian  “Futurists.”  It  packed  the 
Bernheim-Jeune  gallery  from  day  to  day,  and  though 
the  talk  there  was  loudly  satirical,  there  was  in  the 
whole  affair  an  element  to  set  one  thinking  on  the 
ambiguous  condition  of  art  matters  in  France.  The 
astonishing  thing  to  me  was  that  these  Futurists  had 
got  themselves  exhibited  at  all,  and  that  people  were 
willing  to  write  and  talk  about  them  with  more  or 
less  seriousness,  to  attempt  explanations  of  them. 
They  deserve  no  explanation.  Surfaces  covered  with 
chaotic  smears  of  paint,  in  which  with  an  effort 
you  may  make  out  fractions  of  a face  or  of  an  arm, 
are  not,  strictly  speaking,  explainable  at  all.  A rag 
carpet  covered  with  paint  of  many  colors  does  not 
make  a picture.  The  show  suggested  nothing  more 
than  a colossal  bluff  by  which  a group  of  impossible 
theorists  actually  persuaded  people  to  come  and  look 
at  so  many  square  yards  of  colored  canvas  set  within 
frames.  I wondered  why  it  had  “ come  off,”  wondered 
what  the  Parisian  state  of  mind  was  that  could  per- 
mit the  audacity,  and  this,  of  course,  led  to  specula- 


Contemporary  European  Painting  105 


tion  as  to  what  the  French  painters  themselves  were 
doing. 

Studio  talk  revealed  the  promise  of  some  reaction 
against  the  Futurists,  the  Cubists,  and  all  the  other 
freakish  innovators.  I learned  that  the  Ingres  exhi- 
bition at  the  Georges  Petit  galleries  in  the  spring  of 
1911  had  made  a profound  impression,  and  that  there 
was  promise  of  a return  to  his  sobriety  if  not  to  emu- 
lation of  his  methods.  Meanwhile,  it  is  plain  that 
something  needs  to  be  done.  It  is  late  in  the  day  to 
point  out  the  unprofitable  nature  of  the  conventions 
which  have  ruled  the  official  exhibitions  for  years. 
But  I saw  a quantity  of  pictures  in  Paris  which  made 
it  worth  while  to  look  closely  once  more  into  an  old 
subject.  There  were  two  exhibitions  in  the  Grand 
Palais  which  brought  out  in  sharp  relief  the  bank- 
ruptcy of  the  contemporary  French  school  apart  from 
a few  individual  types.  One  of  these  shows  was  held 
by  the  Union  des  Femmes  Peintres  et  Sculp teurs,  an 
organization  founded  in  1881  and  officially  recognized 
as  of  ‘'public  utility.”  Painstaking  examination  of 
that  show,  the  contributors  to  which  devoutly  follow 
the  good  old  rules  of  the  Salon,  failed  to  discover  a 
single  really  fine  work  of  art,  and  there  were  hun- 
dreds of  pieces  from  which  to  choose. 

It  gave  one  a comforting  and  very  pleasant  emo- 
tion of  pride  to  think  of  what  would  have  happened 
if  these  ladies  had  invited  a few  of  their  American 
sisters  in  art  to  bear  a hand,  giving  them  a small 


io6  Contemporary  European  Painting 


room  to  themselves.  I could  imagine  in  that  room 
some  portraits  by  Miss  Beaux  and  Miss  Emmet, 
some  flower  studies  by  Mrs.  Dewing,  some  landscapes 
by  Mrs.  Coman  and  Mrs.  Nicholls,  some  miniatures 
by  Miss  Hills,  and  some  sculptures  by  Miss  Scudder 
and  Miss  Longman.  They,  it  may  be  said  in  all 
moderation,  would  have  made  the  exhibition.  For 
genuine  artistic  force  as  distinguished  from  soulless 
routine,  for  depth  of  feeling  as  contrasted  with  triv- 
iality and  convention,  for  good  taste  as  against  next 
to  no  taste  at  all,  they  would  have  put  the  Union  des 
Femmes  Peintres  et  Sculp teurs  to  shame.  The  irrev- 
erent might  assert,  and  not  unjustly,  either,  that  the 
sex  has  not  produced  anywhere  large  numbers  of  great 
painters,  but  it  seemed  incredible  that  even  on  this 
hypothesis  the  collection  in  question  should  be  so  uni- 
formly mediocre,  that  it  should  nowhere  offer  even 
a modest  spurt  of  efficient  and  distinguished  energy. 
No,  it  is  not  a matter  of  sex.  I,  too,  momentarily 
developed  some  cynical  reflections  on  the  feminine 
genius  in  France,  but  I quickly  realized  how  irrele- 
vant they  were  when  I penetrated  to  another  part  of 
the  building  and  saw  what  a certain  number  of  men 
had  been  doing. 

They  ought  to  have  been  doing  great  things,  for 
theirs  was  the  third  quinquennial  exhibition  of  the 
“Prix  du  Salon  et  Boursiers  de  Voyage,”  and  the 
very  legend,  on  a clever  poster  displayed  outside, 
whetted  anticipation.  Back  in  the  70’s  M.  de  Chen- 


Contemporary  European  Painting  107 


nevieres,  then  Minister  of  Fine  Arts,  was  looking  about 
him  for  a means  of  encouraging  young  artists.  The 
establishment  of  the  Prix  du  Salon  and  of  the  Bourses 
de  Voyage  assured  to  the  winners  the  advantages  of 
a couple  of  years  of  foreign  travel,  part  of  the  time  to 
be  spent  in  Italy.  Naturally,  this  beneficent  scheme 
would  encourage  men  of  talent  to  their  best  efforts. 
Naturally,  one  would  expect  an  exhibition  of  works  by 
the  winners  to  be  full  of  good  material.  Should  not 
painters  and  sculptors  who  had  once  deserved  well  of 
their  fellows  go  on  justifying  the  honor  bestowed  upon 
them?  I went  to  the  exhibition  already  mentioned,  as- 
suming that  it  would  be,  as  a matter  of  course,  a good 
one,  and  I found  the  deadening  trail  of  the  Salon  over 
everything  in  it.  There  was  M.  Rochegrosse,  who 
won  the  Prix  de  Salon  in  1882.  He  made,  for  some 
time,  a prodigious  splash.  I recall  the  Salon  in  which 
he  exhibited  his  “Fall  of  Babylon,”  the  immense  can- 
vas which  at  last  found  its  place  in  a New  York 
restaurant.  On  its  first  appearance,  placed  at  the  top 
of  a broad  staircase,  it  set  Paris  agog.  Rochegrosse 
was  a man  to  reckon  with.  As  he  appeared  in  the 
show  to  which  I am  now  referring  he  seemed  inconse- 
quential — merely  one  more  maker  of  totally  unin- 
spired compositions.  There  were  other  noted  names 
in  the  catalogue  — Brouillet,  Cormon.  Cottet,  Fri- 
ant,  Gorguet,  Muenier,  and  so  on.  Of  course,  these 
painters  displayed  due  competence  — a proper  abil- 
ity to  put  a picture  together  in  workmanlike  fashion. 


io8  Contemporary  European  Painting 


But  to  think  of  their  reputations  and  then  to  realize 
the  appalling  dulness  of  the  collection,  its  poverty  in 
anything  like  genius,  was  to  suffer  a rueful  quarter 
of  an  hour.  It  does  not  do  to  say  “Why  should 
one  expect  anything  different  from  the  Salonnier?” 
Surely  one  is  justified  in  expecting  a large  group  of 
Parisian  prize-winners,  seasoned  by  years  of  experi- 
ence, to  show  some  qualities  above  the  average.  That 
was  the  depressing  thing,  that  everybody  represented 
on  the  walls  had  settled  down  to  a dead  level.  They 
differed  among  themselves.  The  light,  shimmering 
tones  of  M.  Paul  Chabas  were  no  doubt  nothing  like 
the  “brown  sauce”  of  M.  Charles  Cottet.  But  at 
bottom  these  artists  and  their  colleagues  all  seemed 
to  me  to  be  working  on  the  common  ground  of  the 
Salon,  making  pictures  keyed  to  the  exigency  of  a 
great  annual  exhibition  and  possessing  no  personal 
charm  whatever  — no  faintest  trace  of  originality. 

The  Salonnier  not  only  lacks  genius  but  is  in  bliss- 
ful ignorance  of  the  fact  that,  wanting  it,  he  is  wasting 
his  time.  I got  absorbed  in  the  problem  and  followed 
it  up  with  an  exploration  of  collections  outside  of 
Paris.  Such  an  exploration  enables  one  to  put  the 
matter  to  the  test  in  a peculiarly  illuminating  way. 
As  you  study  the  popular  figures  in  nineteenth-cen- 
tury French  art  in  the  provincial  museums  you  are 
struck  by  two  important  points.  In  the  first  place, 
you  observe  that  they  are  at  a serious  disadvantage. 
In  Paris  the  Luxembourg  is  their  salvation,  for  there 


Contemporary  European  Painting  109 


they  are  to  be  compared  only  with  themselves.  I 
speak,  of  course,  of  the  men  outside  the  group  which 
has  been  admitted  to  the  Louvre  — Ingres,  Delacroix, 
or  Millet,  for  example,  are,  in  our  present  inquiry, 
hors  concours.  The  rank  and  file  of  the  Salon  are 
spared  that  test  in  Paris.  But  in  the  provinces  they 
are  hung  with  the  old  masters,  for  every  little  town 
has  its  Louvre,  and  there  they  are  tried  as  if  by  fire. 
This  brings  us  to  our  second  point,  which  is  the  utter 
powerlessness  of  method,  as  method,  to  carry  anybody 
into  port.  It  is  only  individual  force  that  can  meet 
the  test  to  which  I have  referred.  This  immemorial 
truth  was  only  too  sadly  confirmed  as  I turned  one 
provincial  museum  after  another  inside  out.  It  was 
pathetic  to  meet,  years  after  I had  well-nigh  forgotten 
them,  pictures  that  I had  seen  triumphantly  flaunting 
themselves  in  old  Salons.  How  trebly  mechanical 
they  looked ! How  flat,  or  how  gaudy,  was  the  color 
in  them,  and  how  cold  the  light!  But  the  cruellest 
exposure  was  that  of  the  Salonnier’s  way  of  painting 
form.  It  is  a way  so  thoroughly  instructed  and  so 
adequate  from  a conventional  point  of  view  that  at 
times  it  commands  a very  nearly  fervid  respect.  You 
find  yourself  wishing  that  certain  American  artists  of 
undeniable  gifts  could  possess  a share  of  the  French- 
man’s mere  every-day  efficiency.  But  in  the  next  in- 
stant you  find  yourself  praying  that  American  art 
may  never  crystallize  as  an  immense  amount  of  mod- 
ern French  art  has  crystallized.  The  virtue  of  a 


no  Contemporary  European  Painting 


sound  mechanism  in  painting  is  beyond  argument, 
and  it  would  be  foolish  to  disdain  the  Salonnier  be- 
cause he  is  so  neat  a journeyman.  But  in  the  prov- 
inces it  is  hard,  much  harder  than  at  Paris,  to  take 
him  without  impatience. 

The  only  case  in  which  he  seemed  to  me  happily 
to  hold  his  own  was  that  of  Bonnat,  at  Bayonne. 
That  celebrated  painter  has  produced  portraits  and 
pictures  which  look  as  though  they  had  been  cut 
out  of  steel,  and  his  color  often  sets  one’s  teeth  on 
edge.  But  Bonnat  is  a master,  he  knows  form,  and 
he  knows  how  to  draw.  Finally,  he  has  the  personal 
quality  which  is  worth  an  age  of  training,  and  it  was 
fine  to  see  how  in  the  little  museum  which  he  himself 
created  at  Bayonne  his  own  works  sustain  compan- 
ionship with  the  old  masters,  the  drawings  and  paint- 
ings by  Ingres,  and  the  many  other  treasures  of  art 
that  he  has  given  to  his  native  town.  This  gift  of 
his,  by  the  way,  extraordinarily  rewards  a pilgrimage. 
The  paintings  include  some  exquisite  early  Italian 
pieces,  Spanish,  Flemish  and  Dutch  paintings  of 
great  value,  and  a rare  collection  of  drawings.  Some 
of  the  most  renowned  drawings  of  Leonardo,  Michael 
Angelo,  Mantegna,  Pisanello,  Raphael  and  Titian  are 
at  Bayonne.  There  are  some  superb  Diirers  and  Rem- 
brandts, and  among  the  moderns  Delacroix  and  In- 
gres, especially  Ingres,  are  richly  represented.  Then 
there  are  beautiful  ancient  and  renaisssance  sculptures, 
and  the  collection  includes  important  bronzes  and 


Contemporary  European  Painting  hi 


ivories.  Presumably  Bonnat  will  still  further  enrich 
the  museum.  As  it  stands  it  is  a little  gem.  The 
things  in  it  are  the  things  that  a painter  has  loved. 
Other  museums  of  far  greater  pretensions  cannot 
claim  an  equal  charm.  All  that  one  can  regret  about 
it  is  that  it  should  be  tucked  away  in  a far  corner  of 
France,  where  travellers  on  the  way  to  Spain  too 
seldom  pause. 

Apropos  of  Bonnat’s  generosity,  allusion  may  well 
be  made  here  to  the  service  rendered  by  the  state  to 
all  the  provincial  museums.  Everybody  knows  how 
the  government  encourages  painters  and  sculptors  by 
purchasing  their  works  and  distributing  these  over 
the  country.  Incessantly  in  the  museums  I would 
read  the  legend  on  a frame,  “Given  by  the  State.” 
It  is  a splendid  policy,  which  one  observes  with  height- 
ened appreciation  on  tracing  the  result  of  it  in  many 
towns.  The  stimulus  it  gives  to  public  interest  in  art 
is  realized  then  more  keenly  than  ever.  And  yet  we 
come  back  to  the  other  side  of  the  medal,  to  the  con- 
viction that  no  government  policy  but  only  heaven- 
sent genius  will  fill  museums  with  the  works  that 
really  leaven  taste  and  give  people  the  right  ideas. 
At  Bayonne  it  was  Bonnat  alone  who  had  anything 
interesting  to  say,  and  there,  too,  in  his  museum, 
room  has  been  found  for  the  popular  Salonnier.  At 
Toulouse,  where  there  is  a most  portentous  array  of 
huge  Salon  canvases,  it  was  only  Benjamin  Constant 
who  could  stand  association  with  the  older  masters, 


1 12  Contemporary  European  Painting 


and  he  is  saved  by  virtue  of  a gorgeousness  of 
color  not,  after  all,  very  serious  in  its  appeal.  At 
Dijon  the  museum  contains  many  beautiful  old  pic- 
tures and  a generous  number  of  modern  works.  The 
latter  struck  me  as,  on  the  whole,  negligible,  until 
I encountered  the  gravely  beautiful  “Ex  Voto”  of 
the  late  Alphonse  Legros.  The  museum  at  Lyons  is 
well  provided  with  Salon  “masterpieces.”  But  they 
shrivel  into  nothingness  beside  the  decorations  that 
Puvis  de  Chavannes  painted  for  the  upper  walls  of 
the  staircase  leading  to  the  picture  gallery.  And  so 
the  tale  continues.  The  government  has  flooded  the 
provinces  with  paintings,  and  thereby  given  to  the 
French  school  an  immeasurable  amount  of,  no  doubt, 
very  desirable  and  even  precious  “encouragement.” 
But  the  searcher  who  follows  the  trail  of  the  govern- 
ment’s good  deeds  preserves  memories  of  but  a hand- 
ful of  men  who  painted  greatly  because  they  could 
not  help  themselves.  It  is  genius,  and  again  genius, 
the  personality,  the  man  born  to  paint,  and  only  that 
man,  who  can  pit  against  the  record  of  the  past  the 
record  of  the  present. 

It  is  the  dearth  of  personality  that  is  lowering  the 
vitality  of  contemporary  French  art.  The  last  time 
I had  “swung  round  the  circle”  of  all  the  great  Con- 
tinental exhibitions,  endeavoring  to  run  to  earth  the 
European  painters  who  seemed  to  be  active  in  the 
van,  the  net  result  of  the  inquest  was  that  it  appeared 
to  be  a case  of  Besnard  first,  and  the  rest  nowhere. 


Contemporary  European  Painting  1 13 


In  France  at  least,  he  still  holds  precisely  the  same 
position.  In  Paris  every  one  was  waiting  to  see  the 
results  of  his  tour  in  India.  No  recent  work  done  in 
Paris  can  quite  compare  with  his  decorations  in  the 
dome  of  the  Petit  Palais,  or  with  his  sumptuous  panel, 
“L’Isle  Heureuse,”  in  the  Musee  des  Arts  Decoratifs. 
Of  the  former  work  he  is  prouder  than  of  anything 
else  he  has  done.  “C’est  moi,”  he  says  to  his  friends. 
But  anything  of  Besnard’s,  whether  it  is  a vast  mural 
decoration  or  a trifling  sketch,  is  immediately  arrest- 
ing, because  in  every  inch  of  it  you  feel  the  vibration 
of  his  original  character.  He  knows  how  to  paint, 
and  he  has  something  to  say.  There  is  organic  life 
in  what  he  does.  But  I could  not  discover  that  Bes- 
nard  has  developed  or  is  promising  to  develop  a fer- 
tilizing current  of  ideas. 


V 

A Note  on  French  Military  Painting 


V 


A NOTE  ON  FRENCH  MILITARY 
PAINTING 

It  is  a curious  paradox  in  the  history  of  French 
art  that  amongst  the  thousands  of  men  who  have 
built  up  the  school  there  have  been  no  great  paint- 
ers wholly  dedicated  to  the  commemoration  of  battle- 
scenes.  In  a country  peculiarly  jealous  of  its  mili- 
tary fame  the  brush  of  genius  has  been  wreaked  only 
incidentally  on  warlike  themes.  Under  the  old  re- 
gime these  were  treated  with  the  formalism  in  vogue 
at  court.  Baron  Gros  derived  from  the  shock  of  the 
Revolution  an  impetus  which  gave  to  his  Napoleonic 
pictures  a certain  invigorating  significance,  but  with 
all  his  merits  and  all  his  constructive  influence  he 
nevertheless  remains  a minor  type.  Gericault,  who 
breathed  a new  fire  into  the  tradition  of  Gros,  died 
too  soon  to  realize  all  his  ambitions,  and,  besides, 
Was  a military  painter  only  at  intervals.  So  it  was 
with  Delacroix.  In  his  long  career  he  sought  his  ma- 
terial in  a hundred  directions  and  always  with  the 
instinct  of  a romantic  and  even  poetic  genius.  From 
the  clash  of  arms  he  got  more  than  once  a memorable 
inspiration,  and  there  are  paintings  of  his  that  are 

117 


> 


1 1 8 


French  Military  Painting 


indeed  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners;  but  they 
are  of  subjects  which  he  took,  so  to  say,  casually, 
between  an  illustration  to  Shakespeare  and  one  to 
Scripture.  Charlet  and  Raffet  alone  interpreted  with 
fulness  and  abiding  authority  the  legend  of  the  Em- 
pire — and  they  were  lithographers.  It  was  not  until 
the  nineteenth  century  was  well  advanced  that  a 
group  of  French  painters  specialized  in  military  sub- 
jects, and  it  so  happened  that  they  remained  detached 
from  the  progressive  movements  in  modern  art. 

Meissonier  was  the  leader  in  this  group.  Born  in 
1814,  he  came  to  manhood  and  to  his  artistic  maturity 
early  enough  to  catch  in  all  their  poignancy  some 
echoes  of  Napoleon’s  campaigns,  and  down  to  the 
day  of  his  death  he  loved  to  draw  his  motives  from 
the  great  man’s  career.  It  was  through  his  Napo- 
leonic pictures  that  he  largely  won  his  world-wide 
repute  and  his  considerable  fortune.  There  was  a 
time,  not  so  very  long  ago,  when  Meissonier  could  be 
counted  upon  to  make  a prodigious  stir  in  the  auction 
room.  But  when  Degas  said  of  one  of  his  noted  battle- 
pieces  that  everything  in  it,  except  the  swords,  was 
made  of  steel,  he  foreshadowed  the  fate  that  has  since 
overtaken  the  painter  of  “Les  Cuirassiers,”  “1814” 
and  a dozen  other  popular  tableaux.  He  was  an 
accurate  costumier  and  he  had  an  extraordinarily  pol- 
ished technique.  His  little  interiors,  with  picturesque 
figures  smoking,  reading  or  playing  cards,  are  so  well 
done,  in  their  way,  that  they  will  long  be  preserved 


French  Military  Painting  119 


with  respect.  But  the  way  of  Meissonier  was  not  the 
way  of  a great  painter.  His  junior,  Alphonse  de  Neu- 
ville,  who  was  born  in  1836  and  died  in  1885,  had  in 
him  more  of  the  true  stuff  of  military  art.  Though 
he  was  unfitted  to  share  to  any  serious  extent  in  the 
conflict  with  Prussia,  he  was  an  alert  looker-on,  and 
his  pictures  have  unquestionably  put  heart  into  the 
French  patriot.  They  have  done  this  through  the 
energy  in  them,  through  their  thoroughly  dramatic 
illustration  of  well-chosen  episodes.  De  Neuville 
could  always  be  relied  upon  to  tell  an  effective  story, 
to  bring  out  the  heroism  or  pathos  of  this  or  that 
action  in  the  war,  and  to  do  it  with  an  easy  skill. 
He  had  little  of  Meissonier’s  diabolical  “finish,”  but 
he  was  just  as  careful  in  matters  of  nice  detail,  and 
he  had  greater  breadth  and  freedom.  His  anecdotes 
have  a vitality,  a gusto,  which  the  more  renowned 
painter  never  knew.  Yet  he,  too,  like  Meissonier, 
was  first  and  last  the  clever  Salonnier.  That  is  the 
designation  which  befits  also  Edouard  Detaille. 

Detaille  was  Meissonier’s  favorite  pupil  and  in 
some  respects  he  bettered  his  master’s  example.  He 
worked,  generally,  on  a larger  scale,  drew  with  more 
flexibility,  and  got  a little  more  elan  into  his  studies 
of  movement.  He  painted  mural  decorations  as  well 
as  easel  pictures,  and  in  a very  accomplished  but 
rather  prosaic  fashion  he  satisfied  to  perfection  what 
we  may  describe  as  the  officially  accredited  taste  of 
his  time.  It  is  one  of  the  delightfullest  phenomena 


120 


French  Military  Painting 


of  French  life,  frequently  commented  upon  in  appre- 
ciative books  of  travel,  that  both  in  the  Louvre  and 
in  the  Salon  one  is  always  rubbing  shoulders  with 
the  peasant  and  bourgeois.  “Every  one  in  France,” 
we  are  told,  “takes  an  intelligent  interest  in  art.” 
This  is  quite  true,  but  it  is  well  to  distinguish,  some- 
times, where  the  intelligence  and  the  interest  are  con- 
cerned. Both  reach,  on  the  whole,  a remarkable 
average,  but  it  is  also  true  that  France  is  full  of  folk 
who  are  beguiled,  like  myriads  all  over  the  world,  by 
very  ordinary  appeals  to  their  emotions.  Detaille 
was  an  adept  in  reaching  the  hearts  of  his  big  audi- 
ence. He  put  his  soldiers  truthfully  upon  canvas,  in 
the  right  uniforms,  with  every  buckle  and  button  in 
the  right  place.  The  hero  steps  out  with  all  the  air 
of  one  carrying  the  baton  of  a future  marshal  in  his 
knapsack.  The  flag  is  exalted  proudly  in  the  breeze. 
We  hear  the  rattle  of  the  drums.  Victory  lies  ahead. 
And  even  defeat  loses  something  of  its  sting  when 
Detaille  paints  it.  He  could  profit  by  the  immortal 
lesson  of  “The  Surrender  of  Breda,”  in  which  Velas- 
quez shows  how  vanquished  and  conqueror  could  meet, 
like  gentlemen.  I recall  from  some  old  Salon  a no- 
table instance  of  Detaille’s  sympathy  for  a subject 
of  the  sort,  a huge  picture  of  a beleaguered  fortress 
opening  its  gates  to  a successful  but  gallant  and  ex- 
quisitely courteous  foe.  There  was  nothing  in  it  to 
irritate  the  amour  propre  of  even  the  most  irreconci- 
lable of  patriots.  But  in  the  mind  of  the  disinterested 


French  Military  Painting 


ill 


foreigner  there  would  obtrude  the  thought  that  there 
was  an  element  of  complacency  in  the  picture,  a com- 
placency reacting  upon  the  whole  fibre  of  the  painter’s 
work. 

Like  any  other  work  of  art  that  is  really  to  touch 
us,  a great  military  picture  must  proceed,  after  all, 
out  of  imagination  and  passion.  Detaille,  at  bottom, 
was  as  cold  as  a stage  carpenter.  Consciously  or  un- 
consciously, he  did  more  to  flatter  the  national  vanity 
than  to  minister  to  our  sense  of  beauty.  His  was 
the  photographically  realistic  ideal  of  Meissonier,  en- 
hanced, as  I have  said,  by  a bolder  nervous  force, 
but  never  quite  released  from  the  influence  of  a me- 
chanical method.  The  zest  disclosed  in  some  of  his 
casual,  spontaneous  drawings,  evaporates  when  he 
works  out  a composition  upon  canvas.  Then  his  fig- 
ures seem  to  become  standardized,  in  the  manner  of 
so  much  modern  illustration,  and  to  exercise  the 
functions  of  the  theatre  rather  than  those  of  life.  The 
colors,  like  the  forms,  are  faithfully  set  down,  and 
they  are  judiciously  harmonized  under  the  cold  gray 
light  of  a Parisian  studio.  But  we  are  not  trans- 
ported to  the  battle-field.  We  know  all  the  time  that 
we  are  in  the  Salon,  looking  at  a good,  typical  Salon 
picture.  By  itself  the  fact  is  not,  perhaps,  deserving 
of  any  very  serious  or  minute  comment.  But  in  its 
representative  significance  the  work  of  Detaille  com- 
mands attention  and  provokes  some  surprised  re- 
flections. Is  it  not  an  odd,  arresting  circumstance 


122 


French  Military  Painting 


that  he,  who  did  so  much  and  did  it  so  well,  should 
nevertheless  have  failed  to  make  himself  a really 
brilliant  master  of  his  craft?  Is  it  not  equally  strange 
that  so  many  of  his  fellows,  laboring  ardently  in  the 
same  field  and  supported,  as  he  was,  by  the  military 
enthusiasm  of  a great  nation,  should  have  failed  to 
carry  the  soul  of  that  nation  into  French  art?  The 
museums  and  other  public  buildings  of  the  land  are 
full  of  battle-pictures,  and  nowhere  do  these  souvenirs 
of  heroic  deeds  match  their  substance  with  their  ar- 
tistic form.  This  is  surely  one  of  the  curiosities  of 
painting. 


VI 

The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion 


VI 


THE  POST-IMPRESSIONIST 
ILLUSION 

It  is  said  that  when  the  former  President  of  the 
French  Republic,  M.  Fallieres,  went  to  the  opening 
of  the  autumn  Salon  of  1912,  he  looked  long  at  the 
paintings  of  the  Cubists  and  Futurists.  “ Charming!  ” 
he  murmured  to  the  Under-Secretary  for  Fine  Arts, 
who  stood  at  his  elbow,  and  then  he  added  anxiously, 
“But  you  won’t  have  to  buy  any  for  the  state  gal- 
leries, will  you?”  I know  perfectly  well  how  that 
anecdote  must  have  been  received  whenever  it  was 
repeated  in  Post-Impressionist  circles.  “Oh,  Fal- 
lieres! But  he  was  always  a bourgeois,  anyway.” 
It  so  happens,  however,  that  the  solicitude  of  the 
French  functionary  has  been  shared  by  all  kinds  of 
people,  including  some  quite  competent  artists;  and 
I note  this  fact  at  the  outset  because  the  confusion 
in  which  the  whole  subject  of  Post-Impressionism 
has  been  enveloped  has  been  rendered  worse  con- 
founded by  much  foolish  recrimination. 

The  Post-Impressionists  themselves  have  not  made 
most  of  the  noise.  This  has  been  developed  largely 
in  print,  and  the  hierophants  of  the  “movement,” 

125 


126  The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion 


which,  as  I shall  presently  endeavor  to  show,  is  not, 
strictly  speaking,  a movement  at  all,  have  made  tre- 
mendous play  with  one  of  the  favorite  devices  of  those 
who  traffic  in  the  freakish  things  of  art  and  letters. 
“Behold  this  masterpiece!”  they  say.  “What!  you 
see  nothing  in  it?  You  find  it  ugly?  Well,  well, 
what  a besotted  idea  of  beauty  you  must  have!  Re- 
pose yourself  before  this  canvas.  It  is  saturated  in 
beauty.  You  do  not  see  it  because  you  have  the 
Philistine  eye;  but  with  patience  and  reverent  study 
you  may  hope  to  unlock  the  secret  of  our  great  man.” 
And  so  on,  with  many  a delicate  suggestion  of  com- 
passionate good-will.  It  is  an  old  trick.  The  play- 
goer who  does  not  like  dirty  plays  is  denounced  as  a 
prude;  the  music-lover  who  resents  cacophony  is  told 
he  is  a pedant;  and  in  all  these  matters  the  final 
crushing  blow  administered  to  the  man  of  discrimina- 
tion is  the  ascription  to  him  of  a hidebound  prejudice 
against  things  that  are  new  because  they  are  new. 
If  he  declines  to  be  convinced  of  this,  he  is  trium- 
phantly reminded  that  all  revolutionaries  in  the  do- 
main of  thought,  from  Galileo  and  Columbus  to 
Wagner  and  Manet,  have  been  for  a time  persecuted 
and  derided.  Ergo,  since  the  Post-Impressionists  have 
provoked  a vast  amount  of  scornful  mirth,  they  are 
necessarily  great  men. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  laugh  at  them,  nor  do  I 
wish  to  swell  the  flood  of  recrimination  of  which  I have 
spoken.  In  the  foregoing  remarks  I have  sought 


The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion  127 


merely  to  clear  the  ground  of  the  cant  which  often 
encumbers  it.  Let  us  look  at  Post-Impressionism 
for  what  it  is,  regardless  alike  of  its  acolytes  and  its 
equally  furious  opponents.  I said  just  now  that  it 
was  not  a movement  at  all.  A movement,  I take  it, 
represents  in  art,  at  all  events,  what  men  do  when 
they  are  pretty  closely  allied  by  strong  sympathies 
and  by  fidelity  to  a body  of  principles  susceptible  of 
some  sort  of  definition.  Such  a group  need  not  be 
wedded  to  a formula,  but  it  cannot  well  avoid  sub- 
scribing to  a fairly  definable  scheme  of  ideas.  Now, 
the  best  light  that  I have  been  able  to  extract  from 
the  vast  welter  of  pronouncements  made  in  and  about 
the  Post-Impressionist  world  lies  in  a saying  of  Emile 
Bernard,  the  intimate  of  Vincent  van  Gogh  and,  for 
a time,  of  Paul  Gauguin.  Bernard,  himself  a Post- 
Impressionist,  modified  to  some  extent  by  study  of 
the  old  Venetian  masters,  has  not  only  painted  pic- 
tures, woven  tapestries,  and  made  architectural  de- 
signs, but  has  written  both  poetry  and  prose.  He 
published  for  about  five  years  a periodical  of  his  own, 
called  La  Renovation  Esthetique,  and  it  bore  this 
device:  “There  is  neither  ancient  art  nor  modern 
art.  There  is  art,  which  is  to  say  the  manifestation 
of  the  eternal  ideal.”  Could  anything  be  more  com- 
prehensive — or  more  vague?  However,  we  must 
find  out  what  the  Post-Impressionists  are  driving  at, 
and  before  we  turn  to  the  only  conclusive  documents 
in  the  case,  namely,  the  works  they  have  produced, 


128  The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion 


I may  pass  over  a sea  of  ecstatic  but  muddled  expo- 
sition and  cite  from  Mr.  Roger  Fry,  an  English  critic 
who  has  done  much  to  further  the  propaganda  in 
London,  these  not  unhelpful  words: 

All  art  depends  upon  cutting  off  the  practical  responses 
to  sensations  of  ordinary  life,  thereby  setting  free  a pure, 
and,  as  it  were,  disembodied  function  of  the  spirit;  but, 
so  far  as  the  artist  relies  on  the  associated  ideas  of  the 
objects  which  he  represents,  his  work  is  not  completely 
free  and  pure,  since  romantic  associations  imply  at  least 
an  imagined  practical  activity. 

There  is  a touch  of  mumbo-jumbo  here,  but  there 
is  a little  aid  in  the  passage,  as  I have  said,  inasmuch 
as  it  points  to  a queer  kind  of  symbolism  lurking  at 
the  bottom  of  the  Post-Impressionist  hypothesis.  It 
is,  I frankly  confess,  a difficult,  if  not  an  impossible, 
task  to  explain  that  hypothesis  in  terms  that  will  be 
acceptable  to  the  zealots,  who,  moreover,  have  always 
the  easy  retort  that  one  has  not  understood  their 
sublime  mystery.  But  I must  take  the  risk  and  state 
what,  after  careful  study,  I have  gathered  to  be  the 
Post-Impressionist  aim.  It  is  to  eschew  such  approxi- 
mately accurate  representation  of  things  seen  as  has 
been  hitherto  pursued  by  painters  of  all  schools,  and 
to  cover  the  canvas  with  an  arrangement  of  line  and 
color  symbolizing  the  very  essence  of  the  object  or 
scene  attacked.  For  some  occult  reason  it  is  assumed 
that  a portrait  or  picture  painted  according  to  the 
familiar  grammar  of  art,  understood  of  all  men,  is 


The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion  129 


clogged  with  irrelevant  matter.  The  great  masters 
of  the  past,  to  be  sure,  are  not  invalidated,  and  they 
need  not  be  sent  to  the  lumber-room;  but  their  day 
is  done,  and  with  the  Post-Impressionists  we  must 
slough  off  a quantity  of  played-out  conventions  be- 
fore we  can  enter  the  promised  land. 

The  temptation  to  go  deeper  into  the  metaphysics 
of  the  subject  is  not,  I admit,  very  strong,  for  I do 
not  like  to  chew  sawdust,  nor  do  I enjoy  going  down 
into  a cellar  at  midnight  without  a candle  to  look 
for  a black  cat  that  isn’t  there,  as  the  metaphysician, 
according  to  the  witty  Lord  Bowen,  is  so  often  wont 
to  go.  And  I have  the  best  of  reasons  for  refusing 
thus  to  weary  either  the  reader  or  myself.  The  cat, 
I maintain,  is  not  there.  That  is  the  nubbin  of  the 
whole  argument.  Post-Impressionism  as  a move- 
ment, as  a ponderable  theory,  is,  like  the  cat,  an 
illusion.  The  portentous  things  we  hear  about  it  are 
not  the  adumbrations  of  an  intelligible  and  precious 
truth,  but  are  mere  ex-parte  assertions.  This,  I may 
be  told,  is  itself  no  more  than  an  assertion;  but  I do 
not  offer  it  without  the  support  of  facts,  and  with 
these  I am  well  supplied  by  the  Post-Impressionists 
themselves. 

To  do  them  justice,  I cannot  discover  that  the 
“onlie  begetters”  of  this  curious  affair  in  modern 
painting  have  bragged  overmuch  about  harboring  an 
authentic  feline  in  their  cellar.  Mark  how  the  pres- 
ent misunderstanding  all  began  with  the  late  Paul 


130  The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion 


Cezanne,  who  was  born  in  1839,  the  son  of  a Pro- 
vencal banker.  Duret  tells  about  him  in  his  book 
on  Manet  and  the  French  Impressionists:  how  when 
he  came  up  to  Paris  he  fell  into  the  arms  of  Zola; 
how  he  oscillated  between  Romanticism  and  Impres- 
sionism; and  how,  being  a man  of  means,  a comfort- 
able bourgeois,  he  spent  his  life  painting  to  please 
himself.  He  was  an  industrious  man  and  covered 
many  canvases.  Light  interested  him,  but  he  cared 
most  for  color.  His  style  was  rough  to  the  point  of 
brutality.  Sometimes  the  object  is  clearly  and  hand- 
somely realized  in  his  work.  More  often  it  is  lost 
in  an  obscurity  of  coarse,  unlovely  pigment.  He  is 
one  of  those  types  who  convey  the  impression  that 
they  are  feeling  their  way  toward  something  large 
and  beautiful,  but  never  have  fully  mastered  a sound 
technical  method.  Looking  at  Cezanne  quietly  and 
disinterestedly,  one  would  recognize  in  him  a rather 
crotchety  man  of  talent,  many  of  whose  pictures  should 
have  been  discarded  as  crude  attempts.  About  none 
of  them,  good  or  bad,  is  there  really  any  esoteric 
mystery.  The  mystery  lies  in  the  fuss  that  has  been 
made  over  them,  as  over  the  tablets  of  a new  evangel. 
Cezanne  was  simply  an  offshoot  of  the  Impression- 
ist School  that  we  know,  who  never  quite  learned  his 
trade,  and  accordingly,  in  his  dealings  with  landscape, 
still  life,  and  the  figure,  was  not  unaccustomed  to 
paint  nonsense.  Nothing  here  to  explain  the  Post- 
Impressionist  furore.  But  Cezanne,  the  link  be- 


The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion  13 1 


tween  Impressionism  and  Post-Impressionism,  does, 
through  his  complacency,  give  us  some  suggestion  of 
the  egotism  and  self-indulgence  which  were  presently 
to  set  the  Post-Impressionist  ball  rolling  in  good  ear- 
nest. 

These  are  the  days  of  impossible  beliefs,  but  not 
of  lost  causes,  and  the  first  belief  engendered  in  the 
Post-Impressionist  is  an  immeasurable  belief  in  him- 
self. What  chiefly  impresses  me  about  him  as  a type 
is  his  conviction  that  what  he  chooses  to  do  in  art  is 
right  because  he  chooses  to  do  it.  This  egotism  is 
doubtless  compatible  with  some  engaging  qualities. 
I have  read  the  volume  of  letters  written  by  Van 
Gogh  to  his  friend  Bernard,  and  I have  read  the 
latter’s  introductory  pages.  It  is  plain  that  these 
two  were  full  of  a candid  enthusiasm  for  painting, 
keenly  interested  in  the  masters,  ancient  and  modern, 
and  ardently  desirous  of  solving  technical  problems. 
But  of  each  it  may  also  be  said  that  he  had  “too 
much  ego  in  his  cosmos,”  and  in  the  case  of  Van 
Gogh,  the  result  was  disastrous.  He,  too,  like  Ce- 
zanne, made  his  lucky  hits.  Passionately  in  love 
with  color,  and  groping  toward  an  effective  use  of  it 
in  the  expression  of  truth,  he  gives  you  occasionally 
in  his  thick  impasto  a gleam  of  sensuously  beautiful 
tone.  But  as  he  grew  more  and  more  absorbed  in 
himself,  which  is  to  say  more  and  more  indifferent 
to  the  artistic  lessons  of  the  centuries,  his  pictures 
receded  further  and  further  from  the  representation 


132  The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion 


of  nature,  and  fulfilled  instead  an  arbitrary,  capri- 
cious conception  of  art.  The  laws  of  perspective  are 
strained.  Landscape  and  other  natural  forms  are 
set  awry.  So  simple  an  object  as  a jug  containing 
some  flowers  is  drawn  with  the  uncouthness  of  the 
immature,  even  childish,  executant.  From  the  point 
of  view  of  the  Post-Impressionist  prophet,  all  this 
may  be  referred  to  inventive  genius  beating  out  a 
new  artistic  language.  I submit  that  it  is  explained 
rather  by  incompetence  suffused  with  egotism.  The 
man  was  unbalanced.  Once,  when  he  was  staying  at 
Arles,  a girl  of  his  acquaintance  received  from  him  a 
packet  which  she  opened,  expecting  it  to  reveal  a 
welcome  present.  She  found  that  it  contained  one 
of  the  painter’s  ears,  which  he  had  that  morning  cut 
off  with  his  razor.  The  incident  is  too  horrible,  in- 
trinsically and  in  its  suggestion  of  the  most  tragic  of 
human  ills,  to  be  lightly  employed  for  purposes  of 
argument.  Nevertheless,  it  is  legitimate  to  affirm 
that  the  hero  of  this  anecdote,  who  spent  some  time 
in  an  asylum  and  ultimately  committed  suicide,  was 
unlikely  to  think  straight.  That  has  been  the  trouble 
with  all  the  Post-Impressionists.  They  have  not 
thought  straight. 

The  thinking  they  have  done,  and  they  have  done 
much,  has  been  invertebrate  and  confusing.  Stead- 
ily, too,  it  has  led  them  to  produce  work  not  only  in- 
competent, but  grotesque.  It  has  led  them  from  com- 
placency to  what  I can  only  describe  as  insolence.  If 


The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion  133 


these  seem  hard  words,  let  me  recall  an  incident  of 
the  Post-Impressionist  exhibition  in  London  two  years 
ago.  Mr.  Roger  Fry,  writing  in  defence  of  the  proj- 
ect, cited  various  persons  who  were  in  sympathy 
with  it,  and  named  among  them  Mr.  John  S.  Sargent. 
In  the  course  of  a letter  to  the  London  Nation,  that 
distinguished  painter  said:  “Mr.  Fry  may  have  been 
told  — and  have  believed  — that  the  sight  of  those 
paintings  had  made  me  a convert  to  his  faith  in  them. 
The  fact  is  that  I am  absolutely  sceptical  as  to  their 
having  any  claim  whatever  to  being  works  of  art,  with 
the  exception  of  some  of  the  pictures  by  Gauguin  that 
strike  me  as  admirable  in  color,  and  in  color  only.” 
The  italics  are  mine,  and  I hope  I may  be  pardoned 
for  using  them,  for  it  is  important,  I think,  that  the 
testimony  in  this  case  of  a master  like  Sargent  should 
not  be  overlooked.  There  is  another  great  painter 
to  whom  I like  here  to  refer,  the  late  John  La  Farge. 
In  a letter  of  his  which  I have  printed  elsewhere, 
a letter  to  Mr.  Henry  Adams,  he  speaks  of  “that  wild 
Frenchman  — I should  say  stupid  Frenchman.  I 
mean  Gauguin.”  He  was,  I know,  interested  in  the 
painter,  partly  because  Gauguin  has  been,  like  him- 
self, in  the  South  Seas.  In  this  letter  he  speaks  of 
the  Frenchman’s  “wild”  ways  there,  and  adds,  “All 
that  seemed  natural  enough,  stupid  enough;  and  yet 
there  was  something  of  the  man  who  has  found  some- 
thing.’ ’ Yes,  Gauguin  ‘ ‘ found  something.  ’ ’ W e have 
seen  Sargent  glancing  in  friendly  wise  at  his  color. 


134  The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion 


But  La  Farge,  like  Sargent,  knew  how  to  distinguish 
and  he  goes  on  to  speak  of  “the  peculiar  shows  which 
some  of  those  good  people  indulge  in,”  and  dismisses 
the  “tedious  subject”  with  the  remark,  “They  are 
driven  to  do  something  to  attract  attention,  even 
their  own  attention.” 

It  was  not  so  with  Cezanne,  nor  was  it  so  with 
poor,  tormented  Vincent  van  Gogh.  But  Gauguin, 
with  his  raucous  South  Sea  nudes  and  the  later,  more 
“symbolical,”  products  of  his  brush,  is  not  undeserv- 
ing of  La  Farge’s  caustic  and  perhaps  cynical  com- 
ment. As  for  Matisse,  and  Picasso  the  Spaniard,  with 
whom  the  more  pronounced  humors  of  Post-Impres- 
sionism come  into  view,  their  entanglement  in  the 
eccentricities  of  a kind  of  Barnumism  is  visible  at  a 
glance.  These  gentlemen  have  their  predilections. 
Gauguin,  whose  imagination  was  touched  by  the  noble 
bronze  figures  of  the  models  he  found  in  Tahiti  and  by 
the  glow  in  their  tropical  background,  has  been  all  for 
form  “grandly”  and  symbolically  treated.  Matisse 
has  a kindred  flair.  In  painting  and  sculpture  he 
treats  the  nude  with  some  particular  resolution,  so  his 
high  priests  say,  to  get  out  of  it  beauty  of  line  and 
rhythm.  In  rhythm,  I am  told,  he  is  very  strong. 
George  Eliot  speaks  in  one  of  her  novels  of  the  cre- 
dulity in  a guard  which  permits  an  interloper  to  get 
past  him  on  the  flimsiest  of  pretexts,  and  she  adds, 
“There  are  some  men  so  stupid  that  if  you  say,  ‘I  am 
a buffalo,’  they  will  let  you  pass.”  I have  thought  of 


The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion  135 


this  when  I have  gone  hunting  for  the  line  and  rhythm 
of  Matisse,  and  have  marvelled  at  those  critics  who 
have,  so  to  say,  let  them  pass.  It  is,  I believe,  a 
matter  of  history  that  he  has  learned  how  to  draw. 
But  whatever  his  ability  may  be,  it  is  swamped  in  the 
contortions  of  his  misshapen  figures.  The  fact  is  that 
real  genius  in  these  matters  will  out.  Degas,  who  has 
been  all  his  life  a disciple  of  Ingres,  uses  a magic  of 
draughtsmanship  akin  to  that  of  his  idol,  though  the 
style  and  spirit  of  his  work  are  wholly  his  own.  If 
Matisse  were  the  demigod  he  is  assumed  to  be,  there 
would  be  at  least  some  hints  of  an  Olympian  quality 
breathed  through  his  gauche  puerilities.  Picasso,  too, 
the  great  panjandrum  of  the  Cubist  tabernacle,  is 
credited  with  profound  gifts.  Why  does  he  not  use 
them?  And  why  must  we  sit  patient,  if  not  with  awe- 
struck and  grateful  submissiveness,  before  a portrait 
or  a picture  seemingly  representing  a grotesque  object 
made  of  children’s  blocks  cut  up  and  fitted  together? 
This  is  not  a movement,  a principle.  It  is  unadulter- 
ated “cheek.” 

Recently  in  Paris  I saw  an  exhibition  made  by 
the  Italian  Futurists  at  the  Bernheim-Jeune  gallery. 
I had  long  before  been  prepared  in  a measure  for  this 
experience  by  a wild  and  whirling  “manifesto”  sent 
out  from  Milan.  But  the  most  violent  propositions 
of  Signor  Boccioni  were  surpassed  by  the  phantas- 
magorias I was  at  last  privileged  to  see  for  myself. 
These  painters  — ■ and  again  I protest  that  I cannot 


136  The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion 


answer  for  the  correctness  of  my  report  of  their  pro- 
gramme, for  one  cannot  dissect  a catharine-wheel  in 
motion  — appear  to  have  got  it  into  their  heads  that 
they  could  liquefy  a subject  in  a picture  into  its  emo- 
tional constituents.  (The  repetition  of  this  phrase 
three  times,  by  moonlight,  may  help  the  reader  a 
little.)  The  Bernheim-Jeune  gallery  was  thronged 
every  day  with  people  who  came  to  see  how  the 
trick  was  done.  What  they  saw  was  a series  of  can- 
vases bearing  intelligible  titles,  but  otherwise  resem- 
bling patchworks  of  color.  In  the  strange  mosaic  of 
crude  reds,  blues,  yellows,  and  so  on,  one  could  make 
out  part  of  a head,  the  smoke-stack  of  a locomotive, 
a man’s  hand  and  cuff,  the  legs  of  a table,  or  some- 
thing that  might  have  been  a flower  or  a fruit.  One 
of  the  pictures  — one  of  Boccioni’s  own,  was  called 
“Laughter,”  and  in  it  there  was  something  that,  for 
a Futurist,  made  a fairly  credible  head;  but  the  rest 
was  chaos. 

The  name  of  these  “revolutionaries”  is  legion,  and 
many  of  them  have  their  distinctive  absurdities,  but 
they  are  all  united  on  one  point.  Post-Impressionist, 
Cubist,  or  Futurist,  however  they  may  be  designated, 
their  cue  is  to  turn  the  world  upside  down.  One  in- 
teresting outcome  of  their  common  foible  is  a curi- 
ous family  likeness  running  through  their  productions. 
That  sterling  painter,  beloved  of  painters,  the  Bel- 
gian Alfred  Stevens,  once  asked  a dryly  satirical  ques- 
tion. “Why,”  he  said,  “have  those  persons  who  im- 


The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion  137 


agine  they  invented  Impressionism  nearly  all  the  same 
impression  before  Nature?  It  seems  to  me  that  it 
should  be  the  contrary.”  The  reflection  may  justly 
be  applied  to  Post  Impressionism  and  the  allied  ab- 
errations of  contemporary  painting.  Gauguin  and 
Bernard  quarrelled  as  to  who  “got  there  first.”  But 
the  point  is  negligible,  for  if  the  whole  dreary  business 
is  deficient  in  anything,  it  is  deficient  in  individuality. 
I make  no  excuse  for  ignoring  a multitude  of  names 
in  this  brief  survey.  Why  dwell  upon  names  that 
mean  nothing? 

It  is  the  dull  sterility  of  this  so-called  “movement” 
that  offers  the  chief  point  of  attack  for  those  who 
resent  its  intrusion  into  the  field  of  art.  Let  the 
Post-Impressionists  and  their  loquacious  friends  wax 
eloquent  among  themselves  as  to  what  constitutes 
beauty  and  what  they  may  mean  by  the  theories 
through  which  they  assume  to  develop  its  secret. 
Their  debatings  are  worthless  so  long  as  they  go  on 
producing  flatly  impossible  pictures  and  statues.  The 
oracular  assertion  that  the  statues  and  the  pictures 
are  beautiful  and  great  is  merely  so  much  impudence 
and  “bounce.”  It  is,  after  all,  a little  cool  for  ill- 
equipped  experimenters  to  take  themselves  so  seri- 
ously. The  dabster  in  music  or  the  drama  or  litera- 
ture is  usually  expected  to  acquire  some  proficiency 
in  his  medium  before  he  undertakes  to  speak  out. 
By  some  mysterious  dispensation,  which  no  one  yet 
has  accounted  for,  the  artist,  and  especially  the 


138  The  Post-Impressionist  Illusion 


painter,  is  early  let  loose  upon  the  world,  whether  he 
has  acquired  a decent  training  or  not. 

Here,  from  the  incomplete,  halting  methods  of 
Cezanne,  there  has  flowed  out  of  Paris  into  Germany, 
Russia,  England,  and  to  some  slight  extent  the  United 
States,  a gospel  of  stupid  license  and  self-assertion 
which  would  have  been  swept  into  the  rubbish-heap 
were  it  not  for  the  timidity  of  our  mental  habit. 
When  the  stuff  is  rebuked  as  it  should  be,  the  Post- 
Impressionist  impresarios  and  fuglemen  insolently 
proffer  us  a farrago  of  supersubtie  rhetoric.  The 
farce  will  end  when  people  look  at  Post-Impression- 
ist pictures  as  Mr.  Sargent  looked  at  those  shown 
in  London,  “absolutely  sceptical  as  to  their  having 
any  claim  whatever  to  being  works  of  art.” 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


VII 


A MEMORABLE  EXHIBITION 

I 

There  was  an  exhibition  in  New  York,  held  from 
the  middle  of  February  to  the  middle  of  March,  1913, 
in  the  Armory  of  the  69th  Regiment,  which  deserves 
a place  by  itself  in  the  history  of  such  matters.  Un- 
precedented thousands  went  to  see  it  and  of  these 
some  said  that  its  effect,  if  it  had  any,  would  quickly 
pass,  others  that  it  marked  a crucial  turning-point 
in  our  artistic  affairs  if  not  in  American  art.  Time 
alone  can  show  which  was  the  correct  view,  but  the 
very  nature  of  the  episode,  its  significance  as  a chal- 
lenge, inclines  me  to  give  some  account  of  it  here, 
with  a few  notes  on  what  the  exhibition  contained. 
The  Association  of  American  Painters  and  Sculptors, 
which  was  responsible  for  the  undertaking,  did  far 
more  than  provide  the  public  with  a novel  entertain- 
ment; it  set  everybody  to  thinking  of  current  condi- 
tions in  art,  and  that  alone  is  an  achievement  worth 
remembrance.  Fully  to  appreciate  the  point  it  is 
necessary,  perhaps,  to  glance  at  the  circumstances 
leading  up  to  this  event. 

Miscellaneous  exhibitions,  and  more  particularly 

141 


142 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


those  for  which  artists  are  asked  to  submit  their  works 
to  a jury,  are  in  art  very  much  what  small,  local 
campaigns  are  in  politics.  They  disturb  neighborly 
calm.  Men’s  souls  are  tried,  not  tragically,  perhaps, 
but  in  little  ways  that  are  sometimes  more  irritating 
than  a real  crisis  could  be.  It  is  difficult,  very  diffi- 
cult, to  philosophize  the  subject.  That  the  emotions 
and  opinions  of  A,  whose  picture  is  hung  on  the 
line,  of  B,  who  is  “skied,”  and  of  C,  who  is  politely 
requested  to  take  his  masterpiece  away,  are  all  de- 
termined by  personal  considerations,  is  a manifestly 
superficial  view  of  the  situation  to  take.  We  may 
be  sure  that  A,  at  any  rate,  looks  at  it  wholly  in  the 
dry  light  of  reason.  He  knows  that  juries  are  infal- 
lible. Be  that  as  it  may,  we  are  certain  of  one  thing, 
and  that  is  that  the  story  of  all  such  exhibitions  as 
I have  in  mind  is  but  one  long  sequence  of  secessions, 
and  in  this  regard  New  York  has  in  no  wise  differed 
from  Paris,  London,  Munich  and  every  other  Euro- 
pean capital.  Indeed  the  historian  curious  in  dates 
might  even  hope  to  demonstrate  that  we  were  leaders 
in  the  fashion.  It  was  in  the  seventies  that  the  So- 
ciety of  American  Artists  was  created,  out  of  protest 
against  the  Academy  of  Design  (only  to  be  reabsorbed 
into  that  body,  in  the  fulness  of  time)  and  it  was 
because  the  Society  didn’t  measure  up  to  their  ideals 
of  administrative  perfection  that  the  Ten  American 
Painters  went  off  to  exhibit  by  themselves.  There 
have  been  other  instances  of  revolt,  and  in  recent 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


143 


years  certain  of  the  younger  men  have  in  one  way  or 
another  contrived  to  have  their  little  fling,  “by  their 
wild  lones,”  untrammelled  by  pontifical  juries.  I 
need  not  pause  on  their  grievances  or  on  what,  pre- 
cisely, they  have  hitherto  done  to  redress  them.  It 
is  enough  to  say  that  these  “Independents,”  keen 
upon  having  their  own  way,  have  done  a good  deal 
to  put  into  the  air  the  idea  that  “freedom”  is  not  as 
wide-spread  in  the  world  of  American  art  as  it  ought 
to  be,  and  that  something  should  be  done  clearly  to 
establish  a more  liberal,  more  open-minded  and  sym- 
pathetic attitude  toward  every  “new”  thing.  It  was 
toward  the  advancement  of  this  principle  that  the 
Association  of  American  Painters  and  Sculptors,  itself 
a new  body,  directed  its  efforts  when  it  set  out  to 
make  what  soon  came  to  be  known  simply  as  the 
Armory  show.  For  the  sake  of  the  record  I like  to 
give  here  the  names  of  the  members,  as  printed  in 
the  catalogue. 


Karl  Anderson 
George  Bellows 

D.  Putnam  Brinley 
J.  Mowbray-Clarke 
Leon  Dabo 

Jo  Davidson 
Arthur  B.  Davies 
Guy  Pene  Du  Bois 
Sherry  E.  Fry 
William  J.  Glackens 
Robert  Henri 

E.  A.  Kramer 

Mahonri 


Walt  Kuhn 
Ernest  Lawson 
Jonas  Lie 
George  B.  Luks 
Elmer  L.  MacRae 
Jerome  Myers 
Frank  A.  Nankivell 
Bruce  Porter 
Maurice  Prendergast 
John  Sloan 
Henry  Fitch  Taylor 
Allen  Tucker 
Young 


144 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


The  best  thing  that  these  artists  could  do  to  enlist 
public  support  for  their  enterprise  they  did  a month 
or  more  before  the  Armory  doors  were  opened  when 
they  authorized  their  president,  Mr.  Arthur  B.  Davies, 
to  issue  the  following  statement: 

On  behalf  of  the  executive  committee  I desire  to  explain 
the  general  attitude  of  the  association.  . . . This  is  not 
an  institution,  but  an  association.  It  is  composed  of  per- 
sons of  varying  tastes  and  predilections,  who  are  agreed 
on  one  thing — that  the  time  has  arrived  for  giving  the 
public  here  the  opportunity  to  see  for  themselves  results 
of  new  influences  at  work  in  other  countries  in  an  art  way. 
In  getting  together  the  works  of  the  European  moderns 
the  society  has  embarked  on  no  propaganda.  It  proposes 
to  enter  on  no  controversy  with  any  institution.  Its  sole 
object  is  to  put  the  paintings,  sculptures  and  so  on  on 
exhibition,  so  that  the  intelligent  may  judge  for  themselves 
by  themselves.  Of  course,  controversies  will  arise,  just  as 
they  have  arisen  under  similar  circumstances  in  France, 
Italy,  Germany  and  England.  But  they  will  not  be  the 
result  of  any  stand  taken  by  this  association  as  such. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  are  perfectly  willing  to  assume  full 
responsibility  for  providing  the  opportunity  to  those  who 
may  take  one  side  or  the  other.  Any  individual  expres- 
sion of  opinion  contrary  to  the  above  is  at  variance  with 
the  official  resolution  of  this  association. 

This  candid  and  dignified  declaration  would  have 
been  welcome  anywhere.  For  the  time,  and  place,  it 
was  ideal.  Some  of  the  exhibitions  of  foreign  art 
which  have  been  brought  to  the  city  have  been  intro- 
duced with  sickening  outbursts  of  utterly  uncritical 
laudation.  The  spasmodic  school  is  out  of  date. 
New  York  is  not  Little  Pedlington,  and  the  numerous 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


HS 


people  who  take  a serious  interest  in  works  of  art 
should  not  be  affronted  by  the  bland  assumption  that 
they  have  not  the  intelligence  to  judge  for  themselves 
but  must  unquestioningly  swallow  whole,  as  precious 
masterpieces,  whatever  is  put  before  them.  Further- 
more, indiscriminate  praise  is  not  only  impertinent 
but  helps  to  expose  the  more  painfully  the  weakness 
of  the  given  case.  The  discreet  words  used  by  Mr. 
Davies  promised  both  to  win  a friendly  reception  for 
his  cause  and  to  further  right  thinking  on  the  whole 
subject.  And  they  were  made  good. 

It  was  a fine  and  stirring  exhibition.  The  collec- 
tion of  about  a thousand  examples  of  modern  art  in- 
cluded some  of  the  most  stupidly  ugly  pictures  in 
the  world  and  not  a few  pieces  of  sculpture  to  match 
them.  But  while  these  undoubtedly  made  the  “sen- 
sation” of  the  affair  it  was  plain  that  the  latter  was 
organized  with  no  sensational  purpose,  and  it  was 
not  freakish  violence  that  gave  the  collection  as  a 
whole  its  tone.  That  tone  was  determined  by  noth- 
ing more  nor  less  than  a healthy  independence  in 
most  of  the  types  represented.  The  merely  eccen- 
tric artists  occupied  a comparatively  subordinate  po- 
sition. If  at  first  this  did  not  seem  to  be  so  it  was 
only  because  things  that  are  bizarre  naturally  make 
themselves  conspicuous.  When  one  came  to  explore 
the  vast  acreage  of  wall  space  one  was  struck  by  the 
large  proportion  of  works  which,  whether  good  or 
bad,  had  nothing  subversive  about  them.  I lay  stress 


146 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


upon  this  sanity  prevailing  in  the  show  because  I 
would  do  justice  to  the  disinterested  aim  of  the  men 
responsible  for  it  and  because,  after  all,  one  likes  to 
testify  to  the  truth.  A great  deal  of  the  criticism 
directed  against  the  exhibition  had  its  origin  in  the 
distress  and  wrath  of  those  who  saw  the  silly  pictures 
and  sculptures  there — and  flatly  ignored  everything 
else.  I saw  the  rubbish  and  hated  it.  But  I know 
the  show  included  much  else. 

The  first  broad  impression  received  was  deeply 
interesting.  The  huge  floor  space  in  the  Armory  was 
admirably  utilized  by  the  erection  of  partitions  form- 
ing fifteen  or  eighteen  octagonal  rooms,  some  larger 
than  others,  but  all  of  generous  dimensions.  Cov- 
ered with  burlap  the  ample  spaces  thus  made  avail- 
able provided  a good  background  which  the  hanging 
committee  employed  to  excellent  advantage.  So  far 
as  the  ensemble  was  concerned  the  pictures  were  well 
hung.  In  one  respect  the  arrangement  might  have 
been  improved.  A rough  principle  of  grouping  was 
followed,  so  that  in  many  instances  the  works  of  a 
given  exhibitor  were  kept  together,  but  this  system 
was  not  rigidly  enough  applied.  There  were  some 
unfortunate  dislocations  of  individual  effect,  and  I 
wished,  too,  that  the  historical  part  of  the  collection 
had  been  more  carefully  isolated,  with  particular  ar- 
tists assigned  to  more  clearly  defined  sections.  But 
all  this  amounted  to  no  more  than  a really  unimpor- 
tant question  of  practical  convenience. 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


14  7 


Chronologically  the  exhibition  began  with  Ingres, 
and  since  he  was  to  be  included  it  was  a pity  that  the 
Association  did  not  get  hold  of  some  more  represents 
ative  things  of  his.  His  share  in  the  show  was,  as 
it  happened,  practically  negligible,  and  it  would  have 
been  interesting,  from  the  educational  point  of  view 
which  the  organizers  had  in  mind,  if  the  public  could 
have  been  shown  just  what  was  the  situation  in  which 
he  marked  the  parting  of  the  ways  nearly  a hundred 
years  ago.  First  a follower  and  then  a critic  of  David, 
he  illustrates  a partial  modernizing  of  the  classical 
tradition;  in  his  art  we  sense  the  first  breath  of  the 
new  life  which  was  to  animate  French  painting. 
Then,  in  his  time  the  Romanticists  arise,  properly 
represented  at  the  Armory  by  his  great  rival,  Dela- 
croix, and  after  their  peculiarly  personal  conflict  comes 
the  general  war.  At  this  point  the  show  weakened 
a little.  Courbet  was  present  but  Millet  was  missing, 
and  the  whole  Barbizon  group  suffered  a curious  neg- 
lect. I surmise,  however,  that  to  the  men  who 
gathered  all  these  pictures  together  the  landscape- 
painters  of  1830  did  not  seem  quite  revolutionary 
enough.  They  were  at  greater  pains  to  bring  the  Im- 
pressionists into  their  scheme,  Manet,  Monet,  and  the 
rest,  not  forgetting  Degas.  It  was  where  those 
painters  left  off  that  the  American  contingent  may  be 
said  to  have  begun  on  this  occasion,  artists  like  Mr. 
Alden  Weir,  the  late  John  H.  Twachtman  and  Mr. 
Childe  Hassam  heading  the  native  list.  Thence  the 


148 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


lines  of  development  set  forth  were  for  some  time  con- 
servative enough  and  the  visitor  realized  that  prevail- 
ing tone  of  intelligent  workmanship  to  which  I have 
referred  above.  It  was,  indeed,  only  as  the  chronolog- 
ical sequence  brought  us  fairly  close  to  the  present 
day,  and  so  up  to  the  verge  of  to-morrow,  that  wrong- 
headed nonsense  came  into  view. 

Be  it  said  to  the  credit  of  our  countrymen  that 
their  indulgence  in  egotistical  fatuity  has  as  yet  been 
slight.  A few  of  them  swagger  about,  so  to  say, 
making  portentous  use  of  their  new-found  “independ- 
ence,” but,  frankly,  it  is  not  to  them  that  the  show 
owed  such  fantasticality  as  it  possessed.  This  was 
to  be  ascribed  to  the  French  Post-Impressionists  and 
Cubists,  with  a few  of  their  Spanish,  German,  Italian 
and  Russian  fellows.  Those  whirling  dervishes,  seek- 
ing, like  the  Fat  Boy  in  “Pickwick,”  to  make  our 
flesh  creep,  succeeded  only  too  easily  amongst  some 
observers,  though  it  is  hard  to  see  why  they  should 
have  been  taken  so  seriously.  The  Cubist  agglom- 
erations of  line  and  color  possess,  sometimes,  expres- 
sive qualities.  It  is  like  the  monstrous  potato  or 
gourd  which  the  farmer  brings  to  the  village  store 
to  see  if  his  cronies  can  make  out  in  certain  “bumps” 
which  he  indicates  the  resemblance  that  he  has  found 
to  General  Grant  or  the  late  P.  T.  Barnum.  It  is 
even  more  like  what  one  would  contemplate  if  a per- 
fectly respectable  wombat,  finding  himself  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  those  gigantic  colored  vessels  which 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


149 


stand  in  a druggist’s  window,  should  suddenly  go 
quite  mad,  thrashing  about  him  and  causing  great 
havoc.  “We  are  all  going  to  heaven,”  said  the  dying 
Gainsborough,  “and  Van  Dyck  is  of  the  company.” 
The  Post-Impressionist  and  the  Cubist,  with  their  ec- 
static acolytes,  would  emulate  in  their  way  this  note 
of  proud  conviction.  But  before  the  evidences  they 
offer  of  their  right  to  be  called  artists,  and  original 
creative  artists  at  that,  I am  only  reminded  of  the 
Western  lady  who,  for  the  first  time,  showed  her  new 
drawing-room,  a tragic  jumble  of  tawdry  decoration, 
to  one  of  her  friends,  saying,  “This  is  our  Louis 
Quinze  room.”  Quoth  the  friend,  “What  makes  you 
think  so?” 

II 

There  was  so  much  that  was  good  in  this  exhibition 
that  it  was  vexatious  to  be  delayed  on  the  way  to  it 
by  a quantity  of  worse  than'  meretricious  material; 
but  I must  say  something  about  the  latter,  and  about 
the  “gush”  that  promptly  set  in  when  it  appeared. 
The  Association  made  one  slip.  It  reprinted  Mr. 
Davies’  statement,  which  I have  already  quoted,  in 
the  catalogue,  but  this  time  there  were  added  some 
remarks  from  another  hand,  and  among  them  this 
one:  “The  foreign  paintings  and  sculptures  here 
shown  are  regarded  by  the  committee  of  the  Associa- 
tion as  expressive  of  the  forces  which  have  been  at 
work  abroad  of  late,  forces  which  cannot  be  ignored 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


ISO 


because  they  have  had  results .”  The  italics  are  mine. 
Why,  I wonder,  was  it  deemed  necessary  to  raise  an 
issue?  One  could  only  remind  the  writer  that  a 
bull  in  a china  shop  is  also  notoriously  productive 
of  “ results.”  A straw  to  show  which  way  the  wind 
was  blowing  in  other  quarters  was  provided  by 
another  commentator,  writing  of  what  he  had  ob- 
served at  the  press  view.  “I  never  heard  a crowd 
of  people,”  he  said,  “talk  so  much  about  meaning 
and  about  life,  and  so  little  about  technique,  values, 
tone,  drawing,  perspective,  studies  in  blue,  in  white, 
etc.”  That  bit  of  concrete  evidence  beautifully  ex- 
posed the  fallacy  which  misled  and  completely  obfus- 
cated many  too  confiding  observers.  It  touched 
the  crux  of  the  whole  problem.  To  go  to  any  exhibi- 
tion with  a solicitude  “about  meaning  and  about 
life”  at  the  expense  of  matters  of  technique  is  not  sim- 
ply to  beg  the  question;  it  is  to  give  it  away  with 
both  hands.  In  art,  elements  of  “meaning”  and 
“life”  do  not  exist  until  the  artist  has  mastered  those 
technical  processes  by  which  he  may  or  may  not  have 
the  genius  to  call  them  into  being.  This  is  not  an 
opinion.  It  is  a statement  of  fact.  To  exclude  tech- 
nique from  art  is  no  more  possible  than  it  is  to  dispense 
in  architecture  with  ponderable  substances.  If  I em- 
phasize the  point  it  is  because  we  have  here  the  one 
chief  source  of  danger.  What  the  student  of  these 
strange  “isms”  needs  to  be  warned  against  is  the 
specious  argument  that  he  cannot  test  them  by  any 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


151 


principles  of  criticism  hitherto  known  to  him,  but 
must  look  at  a picture  as  though  it  were  something 
else,  and  admire  it  for  qualities  which  he  cannot  see 
in  it  but  must  take  on  faith.  There  are  numbers  of 
nominally  intelligent  persons  who  seem  really  to  be- 
lieve that  such  an  hypothesis  is  defensible. 

That  there  is  no  mystery  about  Post-Impressionism 
and  the  like  students  were  helped  to  realize  at  the 
Armory  by  the  scope  of  the  exhibition.  All  they 
needed  to  do  was  to  approach  the  subject  with  some 
system,  looking  first  at  the  examples  of  Impressionism 
as  it  was  understood  by  Manet,  Monet  and  their 
circle.  Such  an  experience  is  very  simply  instructive. 
It  is  not  alone  old  familiarity  with  the  works  of  these 
men  which  makes  the  inquirer  feel  at  peace  in  their 
presence.  He  sees  at  once  that,  while  they  changed 
their  manner  of  handling  pigment  from  that  com- 
mon to  the  members  of  the  Barbizon  school,  their 
principal  innovation,  which  was  that  of  giving  the 
light  of  the  open  air  its  full  value  in  a picture,  in- 
volved no  departures  from  the  broad  grammar  of  art. 
In  composition,  in  form,  in  matters  of  human  expres- 
sion, they  sought,  as  generations  of  their  predecessors 
had  sought,  to  record  the  truths  of  nature.  Now  let 
us  turn  from  their  paintings  to  those  in  which  a new 
philosophy  of  art  is  supposed  to  have  been  announced ; 
let  us  turn  to  the  paintings  of  Cezanne.  This  well- 
to-do  Frenchman,  who,  as  I have  shown  elsewhere  in 
this  volume,  had  no  pot-boilers  to  paint,  but  could 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


152 


use  his  brush  for  his  own  amusement,  had  in  him, 
despite  wholesome  personal  traits,  the  taint  of  the 
amateur.  He  had  some  feeling  for  landscape  and  the 
figure.  He  groped  toward  an  expressive  treatment 
of  form,  and  in  his  nudes  you  can  dimly  make  out 
some  rather  handsome  intentions,  just  as  in  his  land- 
scapes you  can  just  discern  the  aims  of  a colorist  and 
a designer.  But  Cezanne’s  dreams  didn’t  “come 
true”  and  this  not  because  he  was  in  the  throes  of 
some  new,  abstruse  conception  of  art,  but  because 
he  simply  did  not  know  his  trade.  There  are  no 
esoteric  glories  about  Cezanne,  hidden  from  the  vul- 
gar. He  was  merely  a second-rate  Impressionist  who 
had  now  and  then  fair  luck  in  painting  a moderately 
good  picture,  but  would  never  have  come  into  fame 
at  all  if  the  dealers  had  not  taken  him  up  and  there 
had  not  been  the  usual  band  of  scribes  ready  to  ap- 
plaud something  new.  Calverley,  in  one  of  the  droll- 
est of  his  poems,  celebrates  the  casual  organ-grinder, 
and  chooses  this  theme,  so  he  quaintly  tells  us,  “for 
a change.”  Something  of  this  sort  happened  to 
Cezanne.  The  only  mystery  we  have  to  reckon  with 
in  his  case  lies  in  the  fuss  that  has  been  made  about 
him.  With  Vincent  Van  Gogh,  the  Dutch  painter 
whose  mind  gave  way  and  who  died  by  his  own 
hand,  we  are  still  more  or  less  in  the  sphere  of  simple 
Impressionism,  but  in  his  technic  he  diverges  a little 
into  paths  of  his  own,  using  a heavy  impasto  and 
handling  his  color  in  masses.  He  continues  Monet’s 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


153 


theory  of  light,  but  in  his  treatment  of  form  he  has 
nothing  of  that  master’s  skill.  His  figures,  like  his 
flowers  or  his  trees,  are  brutally  painted.  Perhaps 
the  best  piece  of  his  in  this  exhibition  was  the  land- 
scape called  “Moulin  de  Montmartre.”  It  was  a 
simple  impression  of  nature,  it  contained  good  light 
and  color,  and  the  style,  or,  rather,  the  slow,  solid 
method  of  laying  on  the  paint,  made  the  work  amu- 
sing to  the  student  of  technique.  There  was,  too,  a 
study  of  poppies  which  showed  that  he  was  capable 
of  expressing  the  character  of  a flower  and  of  getting 
in  the  process  some  good  tone.  But  having  made 
these  few  remarks  there  is,  in  all  seriousness,  nothing 
further  to  be  said  about  Van  Gogh.  No  doubt  if  we 
were  to  discuss  the  personality  of  the  man,  his  adven- 
tures, his  ideas  on  old  and  modern  methods  and  so 
on,  he  would  prove  a mildly  interesting  topic.  The 
volume  of  his  letters  published  in  Paris  by  his  old 
comrade  Emile  Bernard,  and  the  similar  collection 
which  has  been  brought  out  in  English,  are  well  worth 
reading.  But  do  not  let  us  be  distracted  from  the 
main  issue.  That  was  clearly  presented  in  the  group 
of  some  twelve  or  fifteen  paintings  in  the  Armory  ex- 
hibition, paintings  which  were  excellently  representa- 
tive, and,  I repeat,  all  that  they  had  to  tell  us  was 
that  Van  Gogh  was  a moderately  competent  Impres- 
sionist, who  was  heavy-handed,  had  little  if  any  sense 
of  beauty  and  spoiled  a lot  of  canvas  with  crude,  quite 
unimportant  pictures. 


154 


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Gauguin  is  in  practically  the  same  case.  The  point 
to  remember  here,  too,  is  that  we  have  no  concern 
with  Gauguin’s  adventures  in  the  South  Sea  Islands 
or  elsewhere,  with  his  more  or  less  elaborated  “prin- 
ciples,” with  any  “movement”  to  which  he  has  given 
impetus,  or  with  any  of  the  high-erected  “thoughts” 
that  some  of  the  critics  have  had  about  him.  The 
bald  question  is,  “Does  he  know  how  to  paint? ” The 
answer,  if  not  absolutely  in  the  negative,  is  hardly 
more  encouraging.  He,  like  Paul  Cezanne  and  Van 
Gogh,  interested  himself  in  landscape  and  in  form, 
and  he  brought  to  the  treatment  of  them  some  tech- 
nical aptitude,  some  sense  of  color.  But  he  did  not 
complete  his  education.  There  is,  I insist  once  more, 
nothing  mysterious  here.  Gauguin  is  nothing  more 
or  less  than  the  mediocre  technician,  trying  to  do 
something  which  he  cannot  quite  accomplish.  Of 
course,  he  has  passages  of  modelling,  of  draughtsman- 
ship and  of  rich  warm  color.  Why  not?  These  are 
within  the  reach  of  any  man  of  fair  talent.  But  no 
serious  work  of  art  was  ever  yet  based  on  a few  scat- 
tered passages.  Why,  then,  must  we  take  Gauguin 
seriously?  The  truth  is  that  there  is  no  reason  why 
we  should  do  anything  of  the  sort.  There  lies  the 
key  to  the  whole  absurdity.  The  spectator  who  uses 
a little  common  sense  and  disdains  to  be  browbeaten 
by  the  Post-Impressionist  hierophants  will  simply 
face  things  as  they  are,  recognize  a poorly  painted 
picture  when  he  sees  one  and  let  it  go  at  that.  He 


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155 


will  do  this,  moreover,  even  when  the  plot  thickens 
and  he  follows  the  development  of  Post-Impression- 
ism into  its  last  stages  and  beyond.  As  matters  grow 
worse  he  will  note,  too,  that  what  is  chiefly  promoting 
the  declension  upon  artistic  chaos  is  so  every-day  a 
thing  as  egotistical  impudence.  Cezanne  and  Van 
Gogh  paint  as  poorly  as  they  do,  one  surmises,  be- 
cause they  cannot  help  themselves.  Gauguin’s  va- 
garies seem  to  a considerable  extent  wilful.  Those  of 
Matisse  are  unmistakably  attributable  to  an  indurated 
complacency. 

It  was  once  said  of  a young  fellow  who  thought  a 
little  too  well  of  himself  that  he  couldn’t  have  been 
born  with  his  “cheek”;  he  must  have  acquired  it. 
It  is  not  credible  that  Matisse  has  not  known  just 
what  he  was  about.  There  is  a legend  to  the  effect 
that  the  man  had  some  academic  ability,  and  it  is 
easy  to  believe  that  once,  at  all  events,  he  knew 
how  to  draw.  Vaguely,  beneath  what  is  monstrous 
in  the  paintings  by  him  in  this  exhibition,  one  dis- 
cerned the  grasp  upon  form  and  movement  which  a 
man  has  when  he  has  been  trained  in  the  rudiments 
and  has  used  his  eyes.  But  first  going  after  some 
will-o’-the-wisp  leading  him  into  ways  of  wanton 
ugliness,  and  then,  I infer,  persuading  himself  that 
he  had  a “mission,”  Matisse  proceeded  to  paint  his 
nudes  and  his  studies  of  still  fife  not  with  the  naivete 
of  a child,  but  with  the  forced  simplicity  of  an  adult 
playing  a trick.  In  the  process  he  would  appear  to 


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156 


have  relinquished  all  respect  for  technique,  all  feeling 
for  his  medium,  to  have  been  content  to  daub  his 
canvas  with  linear  and  tonal  coarseness.  The  bulb- 
ous, contorted  bodies  in  his  figure  pieces  are  in  no 
wise  expressive  of  any  new  and  rationalized  canon  of 
form.  They  are  false  to  nature,  they  are  ugly  as  the 
halting  efforts  of  the  veriest  amateur  are  ugly,  and, 
in  short,  their  negation  of  all  that  true  art  implies  is 
significant  of  just  the  smug  complacency  to  which  I 
have  alluded.  Whether  through  laziness  or  through 
ignorance,  Matisse  has  come  to  the  point  where  he 
feels  that  in  painting  an  interior  like  his  “Panneau 
Rouge,”  or  nudes  like  “Les  Capucines”  or  “Le  Luxe,” 
he  is  exercising  the  function  of  an  artist,  and,  of  course, 
there  are  crowds  of  half-baked  individuals  who  are 
ready  to  tell  him  that  he  is  right.  As  a matter  of 
fact,  these  things  are  not  works  of  art;  they  are  feeble 
impertinences.  To  those  who  would  forthwith  prate 
of  some  hidden  virtue  in  them  I would  give  counsel 
similar  to  that  proffered  by  the  host  whose  guest  had 
dined  a little  too  flamboyantly,  and  at  the  moment  of 
departure  was  asking  where  he  could  find  a cab. 
“You  will  find  two  cabs  at  the  corner,”  was  the  reply. 
“Take  the  first  one.  The  second  one  isn’t  there.” 
The  types  thus  far  traversed,  though  steadily  re- 
ceding from  the  technical  propriety  which  I noted 
as  characteristic  of  the  Impressionists  who  gave  us 
our  point  of  departure,  have  been  willing  to  subscribe 
to  the  axiom  that  form  is  form.  Cezanne,  Van  Gogh, 


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157 


Gauguin  and  Matisse,  each  marking  a further  drift 
away  from  the  facts  of  the  visible  world,  have  yet 
confessed  to  the  dominance  of  fact  as  fact  to  the 
extent  of  making  a man,  say,  look  more  or  less  like 
a man.  But  I have  warned  the  reader  of  how  the 
plot  thickens,  and  especially  of  the  effect  that  “cheek” 
has  had  upon  the  process.  When  we  bid  farewell  to 
Matisse,  whose  nudes,  preposterous  as  they  are,  yet 
suggest  the  forms  of  men  and  women,  we  find  our- 
selves in  the  company  of  “revolutionaries”  who  are 
not  dealing  with  form  as  we  understand  it  at  all. 
With  them  a man  begins  to  look  like  something  else, 
preferably  like  some  mass  of  faceted  or  curved  little 
bodies  thrown  together  in  a heap.  The  Cubist  steps 
in  and  gives  us  not  pictures  but  so  many  square  yards 
of  canvas,  treated  as  though  they  were  so  many 
square  yards  of  wall-paper.  But  the  Cubist  wants  to 
eat  his  cake  and  have  it,  too.  He  paints  you  his 
riddle  of  line  and  color,  and  then,  as  in  the  case  of 
M.  Marcel  Duchamp,  calls  it  “Nude  Descending  a 
Staircase.”  In  other  words,  he  has  the  effrontery  to 
assert  that  his  “picture”  bears  some  relation  to  hu- 
man life.  Who  shall  argue  with  him?  For  my  part 
I flatly  refuse  to  offer  him  the  flattery  of  argument. 
According  to  the  Spanish  proverb  it  is  a waste  of 
lather  to  shave  an  ass,  and  that  criticism  of  the 
Cubists  is  thrown  away  which  does  not  deny  at  the 
outset  their  right  to  serious  consideration.  Are  we 
to  be  at  great  pains  to  explain  that  a chunk  of  marble 


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158 


is  not  a statue?  Are  we  elaborately  to  demonstrate 
that  a battered  tin  can  is  not  in  the  same  category 
with  a goblet  fashioned  by  Cellini?  Are  we  to  ac- 
cept these  Cubists  as  painters  of  pictures  because 
they  have  covered  canvas  with  paint?  Are  they  in- 
deed “forces  which  cannot  be  ignored  because  they 
have  had  results”?  These  “results”  have  nothing 
to  do  with  art.  Why  should  they  not  be  ignored? 

Every  one  knows  how  easy  it  is  to  gather  a crowd 
in  a city  street.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  stand  on 
a corner  and  look  up  at  the  chimney-pot  on  a tall 
building.  In  five  minutes  you  are  the  centre  of  an 
eager,  curious  throng.  It  is  no  new  thing  for  the 
artist  to  profit  by  this  expedient.  Years  ago  the 
clever  Frenchman  learned  how  to  paint  the  big  sen- 
sational picture  which  “made  a hole  in  the  wall”  and 
caused  everybody  to  stop  and  gape.  Post-Impres- 
sionism saw  the  efficacy  of  this  trick  and  decided  to 
“go  it  one  better.”  Cubism  has  merely  carried  the 
thing  to  its  logical  conclusion.  And  the  crowd  on 
the  corner  has  swelled  to  astonishing  dimensions.  It 
requires  no  profound  initiation  to  see  the  wisdom 
of  passing  on  and  leaving  the  crowd  to  waste  its  time. 
I cannot  too  often  repeat  the  statement  that  there  is 
really  nothing  grand,  gloomy  and  peculiar  about  these 
freak  pictures.  Conscientiously  I examined  them  all, 
and,  frankly,  could  not  even  find  reason  for  distin- 
guishing between  one  exemplar  of  the  new  “move- 
ment” and  another.  Why,  indeed,  should  we  pay 


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159 


M.  Duchamp  the  compliment  of  detaching  him  from 
the  company  of  M.  Paul  Picasso?  There  is  no  essen- 
tial difference  between  M.  Dunoyer  de  Segonzac’s 
“Une  Bucolique,”  a study  of  nudes  from  which  one 
would  omit  the  “bu,”  and  the  “ Improvization ” of 
M.  Wassily  Kandinsky,  which  reminded  me  of  noth- 
ing so  much  as  of  some  fragments  of  refuse  thrown 
out  of  a butcher’s  shop  upon  a bit  of  canvas.  To 
say  of  Mme.  Jacqueline  Marval’s  “Odalisques  au 
Miroir”  that  the  nude  figures  in  it  looked  like  so 
many  wax  dolls  badly  drawn,  to  note  the  resemblance 
between  M.  Georges  Rouault’s  study  of  a nude  woman 
and  a bunch  of  overripe  plums,  is  surely  not  to  indi- 
cate any  really  interesting  artistic  development.  To 
go  step  by  step  through  the  long  list  would  be  a weari- 
some and  unprofitable  task.  It  is  the  weariness  that 
is  peculiarly  significant.  After  all,  the  chief  trouble 
about  Post-Impressionism  and  Cubism  is  that  they 
are  such  a bore.  There  is  for  a moment  a little  fun 
in  them.  A first  glimpse  of  a piece  of  sculpture  like, 
say,  Archipanko’s  “Family  Life”  inevitably  provokes 
a smile.  But  enough  is  as  good  as  a feast.  There 
was  a parlous  lot  of  this  sort  of  thing  in  the  exhibi- 
tion, and  it  soon  lost  its  power  to  amuse. 


Ill 

The  Armory  show,  as  I indicated  at  the  beginning, 
was  nothing  if  not  a source  of  stimulus,  a challenge 


i6o 


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to  criticism,  and  one  of  the  most  helpful  things  it 
did  was  very  urgently  to  invite  us  to  take  stock,  so 
to  say,  of  American  art  in  so  far  as  it  was  there  rep- 
resented. Native  work  filled  most  of  the  space  and 
quite  apart  from  this  physical  fact  it  was  obvious 
that  we  had  to  reckon  with  the  Independents;  with 
those  of  our  artists  who  are  working,  or  at  all  events 
believe  they  are  working,  in  the  van.  What,  then, 
are  they  doing  and  what  is  it  worth?  These  were 
the  really  pressing  questions  developed  by  the  show. 
In  seeking  to  answer  them  it  is  well  to  begin,  as  in 
the  preceding  notes,  at  the  beginning,  which  is  to  say 
with  French  Impressionism.  There  were  some  fine 
examples  of  the  school  on  the  walls,  from  which  the 
student  could  easily  see  what  it  was  that  set  some  of 
our  own  painters  upon  a new  path.  Manet  showed 
them  the  virtues  of  pure  color,  applied  in  bold,  direct 
fashion,  but  at  the  outset  Monet  is  the  more  suggest- 
ive type.  He  it  was  who  taught  us  the  vibration 
of  color  under  the  light  of  the  open  air,  and  it  was 
in  emulation  of  his  broken  tones  and  his  pervasive 
luminosity  that  our  latter-day  innovators  found  their 
account.  Several  of  them  were  represented  on  this 
occasion,  and  on  the  whole  Mr.  Alden  Weir  was  the 
hero  of  the  group.  They  are  all  types  of  high  ability. 
It  is  interesting  to  note  how  the  pictures  by  the  late 
J.  H.  Twachtman  and  the  late  Theodore  Robinson 
held  their  own  in  the  company  of  masters  like  Manet, 
Monet,  and  Whistler.  Mr.  Childe  Hassam,  too,  richly 


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161 


exemplified  the  ease  and  effectiveness  with  which  the 
Impressionistic  hypothesis  was  adopted  here.  But 
without  drawing  up  anything  so  futile  as  a class  list 
or  making  any  invidious  comparisons  I may  never- 
theless choose  Mr.  Weir  as  a peculiarly  helpful  source 
of  light  on  our  problem. 

What  was  the  value  of  French  Impressionism  to 
American  art?  Its  value  could  only  be  that  of  a 
means  to  an  end,  of  an  influence  fertilizing  individu- 
alized work.  Mr.  Weir’s  pictures  gave  the  perfect 
proof.  I can  well  remember  this  artist’s  earlier  ex- 
periments in  the  open  air,  how  indecisive  they  were, 
and  how  poor  a substitute  for  the  method  he  had 
previously  employed.  As  time  went  on  and  succes- 
sive exhibitions  revealed  the  steps  in  his  progress  it 
seemed  as  if  he  would  never  conclusively  master  the 
new  principles.  Then,  through  sheer  “keeping  at  it,” 
he  demonstrated  his  essential  authority.  The  old 
hesitations  fell  away,  the  note  of  imitation  absolutely 
disappeared,  and  it  was  obvious  that  Weir  was  not  to 
be  designated  even  as  an  Impressionist,  but  just  as 
an  original  painter.  He  had  made  his  Impressionism 
a means  to  an  end,  a means  of  expressing  himself. 
That  is  why  the  panel  containing  four  or  five  of  his 
pictures  in  this  exhibition  enforced  perhaps  the  best 
lesson  that  the  latter  afforded. 

He  exercises  the  true  function  of  the  artist,  which 
is  to  learn  his  trade  and  then  produce  beautiful  pic- 
tures. He  does  not  make  a fetich  of  his  method.  He 


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162 


is  not  enslaved  by  his  pigment.  Impressionism,  was 
not  with  him  a formula  to  be  trotted  out  again  and 
again  for  its  own  sake.  It  was  simply  one  more 
string  to  his  bow,  or,  if  I may  change  the  figure,  a 
kind  of  unconscious  accretion,  enriching  his  talent 
without  altering  its  fundamental  direction.  That  di- 
rection in  the  work  of  Alden  Weir  is  steadily  toward 
beauty,  toward  charm.  And  observe  how  his  assimi- 
lation and  control  of  the  Impressionist  idea  as  part, 
not  the  whole,  of  his  equipment  has  left  him  his  free- 
dom. He  does  not  repeat  himself  nor  is  his  range  in 
any  way  restricted.  In  his  little  group  of  paintings 
there  was  a flower-piece,  there  was  a landscape,  there 
were  a couple  of  portraits.  In  each  one  of  these 
works  he  made  you  feel  that  he  had  been  really  stirred 
by  his  theme  and  had  managed  to  express  its  very 
spirit.  To  each  one  he  gave  a distinctive  character. 
What  was  the  result?  You  marked  him  at  once  as 
not  only  a man  of  technique  but  a man  of  style.  It 
was  in  the  latter  capacity  more  particularly  that  he 
provided  an  invaluable  touchstone  wherewith  to  test 
quantities  of  other  things  in  the  show.  It  was  not 
the  new  method,  freakish  or  otherwise,  that  drew  one 
to  this  or  that  episode;  it  was  the  use  made  of  a given 
method,  the  development  out  of  it  of  those  finer,  more 
personal  effects  which  spell  not  a factitious  "move- 
ment” but  a creative  force. 

Pursuing  the  search  for  this  precious  phenomenon 
one  was  conscious  at  the  back  of  his  mind  of  a good 


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163 


deal  that  had  happened  prior  to  the  opening  of  this 
exhibition.  One  remembered  certain  shows  and  the 
talk  that  went  on  about  them,  the  assertion  of  indi- 
viduality outraged  by  academic  ill-treatment,  the  cry 
for  wider  liberty,  for  more  generous  encouragement. 
Back  of  all  this  one  understood  there  struggled  a 
band  of  artists,  most  of  them  still  young,  who  were 
dissatisfied  with  prevailing  traditions  and  insisted 
upon  speaking  out  in  their  own  way.  We  have  seen 
how  Weir,  Hassam  and  others  profited  by  the  example 
of  Monet  when  that  was  comparatively  fresh.  They 
have  gone  on  in  sedate  mood  toward  their  broadened 
horizon,  and  unnumbered  American  artists  have  fol- 
lowed their  leadership.  But  the  Independents,  com- 
ing later  upon  the  scene,  have  sought  an  even  more 
advanced  tradition.  I wonder  if  to  them  a man  like 
Weir  now  seems  old-fashioned?  This  would  seem 
not  unlikely,  for  the  newer  school  is  out  of  sympathy 
with  his  fastidious  taste.  It  cares  nothing  for  beauty 
as  he  understands  it  and  nothing  for  suavity  of  sur- 
face. It  reverts  to  Impressionism,  inasmuch  as  it 
takes  a leaf  from  Manet’s  book,  but,  as  it  happens, 
that  is  only  the  leaf  which  relates  to  directness  of 
statement.  In  borrowing  that  motive  the  Independ- 
ents, as  though  bent  upon  a kind  of  wilful  defiance, 
brutalize  it  to  an  extraordinary  extent.  The  key-note 
to  the  current  mode  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  an 
exaltation  of  manual  dexterity,  accompanied  by  what 
I can  only  describe  as  a gross  flouting  of  the  artistic 


164  A Memorable  Exhibition 


convenances.  It  is  as  though  the  artist  wanted  you 
to  understand  that  he  knew  how  to  use  his  brushes, 
but  had  no  nonsense  about  him  and  would  not  be 
caught  permitting  a trace  of  sensuous  or  spiritual 
beauty  to  creep  into  his  work. 

There  is  no  link  between  our  earlier  Impressionism 
and  these  recent  outcroppings  of  rebellion.  The  lat- 
ter have  no  place  in  any  sequence  of  artistic  events, 
in  any  evolution  of  ideas.  They  simply  stand  for  a 
sharp  and,  on  the  whole,  sudden  break  with  the  ex- 
isting order  of  things.  So  to  consider  them  is  in  no 
wise  to  disparage  them.  A swift,  violent  change  is 
not  in  itself  necessarily  harmful.  But  neither  is  there 
anything  talismanic  about  it;  neither  is  it  necessarily 
a cause  of  good  art,  and  in  saying  this  I come  pretty 
close  to  the  secret  of  our  Independents,  and,  by  the 
same  token,  to  an  understanding  of  what  they  fail 
to  do.  Consideration  of  what  they  have  failed  to 
do  has  been  rather  forced  upon  us  by  the  general 
drift  of  all  that  agitation  which  has  been  going  for- 
ward for  the  last  few  years.  One  assumes  that  a new 
movement  has  tangible  things  to  say  for  itself,  that 
the  men  behind  it,  being  unmistakably  in  revolt 
against  constituted  authority,  have  principles  of  their 
own  to  put  in  the  place  of  those  which  they  regard 
as  outworn.  Now,  it  is  not  clear  that  the  Independ- 
ents have  any  constructive  campaign  laid  out  or 
that  they  are  doing  anything  to  impugn  the  validity 
of  what  has  gone  before  them.  On  the  contrary,  in 


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going  back  into  the  studio  and  practically  abandon- 
ing the  magic  of  sunlight  they  would  seem  to  have 
retrograded  from  the  point  at  which  modern  art  was 
left  by  the  French  Impressionists.  Instead  of  ex- 
tending and  enriching  the  gamut  of  color  they  have 
cramped  it  within  narrower  limits.  Their  pure  tints 
are  often  also  ugly,  opaque  tints.  A surprising  num- 
ber of  the  pictures  in  the  Armory  show  were  either 
swamped  in  dull  black  or  brown  tones  or  went  to 
the  other  extreme  and  split  the  welkin  with  the  rau- 
cous row  of  their  high-pitched  crudities.  Yet  every- 
body was  terribly  in  earnest.  One  could  not  help 
feeling  that  tney  had  put  their  heart  into  their  work. 
These  are  artists  passionately  convinced  that  they  are 
going  somewhere,  that  they  are  going  forward.  What 
is  it  that  they  have  unconsciously  done,  then,  to  make 
the  spectator  doubtful?  In  a vague  tremor  lest  they 
descend  upon  prettiness  they  have  shunned  beauty. 
Fearful  of  drawing  like  Academicians  they  draw  like 
navvies.  Suspicious  of  the  lure  of  poetry,  which  they 
imagine  must  have  something  “literary”  about  it, 
they  give  themselves  up  to  the  baldest  kind  of  prose. 

There  is  no  denying  that  this  “rough  and  ready” 
conception  of  art  promotes  at  once  a feeling  of  dis- 
appointment, and  even  of  distress.  It  is  painful  to 
have  to  admit  that  the  Independents  have  brought 
nothing  really  new  into  the  field,  that  they  have  no 
alluring  dreams  to  share  with  us,  that  they  are  prac- 
tically innocent  of  the  gift  that  is  so  precious  in  art, 


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1 66 


the  gift  of  invention.  But  it  is  just  at  this  point 
that  criticism  must  be  on  its  guard  against  the  insidi- 
ous temptation  to  ask  an  artist  to  be  something  that 
he  was  never  intended  to  be.  Could  anything  be 
sillier  or  more  unjust  than  to  blame  a Sargent,  say, 
for  not  being  a Botticelli?  The  foregoing  remarks,  ex- 
posing what  the  Independents  lack,  have  been  of- 
fered with  a purely  descriptive  purpose.  Having  thus 
cleared  the  ground,  one  is  free  to  express  the  warmest 
appreciation  of  the  two  highly  important  virtues 
which  do  most  to  stiffen  their  back-bone,  the  virtues 
of  energy  and  truth.  As  regards  the  second  of  these, 
I must  add,  to  be  sure,  a certain  qualification.  That 
prosaic  mood  to  which  I have  just  referred  leads  to 
a quaint  misconception  as  to  subject.  The  Independ- 
ents are  too  exclusively  absorbed  in  the  delineation  of 
every-day,  and  even  squalid,  types.  It  is  wise  for  the 
artist  to  paint  what  goes  on  about  him,  but  New 
York  life,  for  example,  is  not  confined  to  the  East 
Side  or  to  Bohemia.  Velasquez  began  by  painting 
the  humble  figures  of  his  bodegones,  the  peasants  and 
water-carriers  of  Seville,  but  it  was  not  long  before 
he  dedicated  himself  to  the  portrayal  of  kings.  The 
fact  that  we  are  interested  in  a caterpillar  need  not 
prevent  our  delighting  in  a butterfly.  But  this  I note 
in  passing.  Once  we  have  granted  the  Independents 
their  preoccupation  with  not  very  attractive  models, 
we  may  admire  the  zest  and  the  skill  with  which  they 
do  their  work.  There  we  have  the  final  source  of 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


1 6 7 


the  genuine  pleasure  that  was  extracted  from  this  ex- 
hibition. It  was  inspiriting  to  come  in  contact  with 
a company  of  artists  so  sincerely  desirous  of  keeping 
their  eyes  upon  the  object,  to  paint  it  with  unflinch- 
ing fidelity  to  nature,  and  so  manfully  willing  to  let 
themselves  go. 

It  hardly  matters  at  all,  from  this  point  of  view, 
that  they  have  added  nothing  to  our  store  of  artistic 
ideas.  To  be  genuine  is  to  be  of  some  significance  in 
the  world,  and  the  honest  robust  vigor  of  these  men 
is  by  itself  enough  to  inspire  sympathy.  Further- 
more, to  note  their  poverty  of  invention  is  not  by 
any  means  to  say  that  they  are  bankrupt  of  person- 
ality, that  indispensable  ingredient  of  good  art. 
Though  it  is  impossible  here  to  traverse  the  show  in 
detail,  minutely  appraising  picture  after  picture  in  a 
portentously  large  collection,  I must  pause  if  only 
for  a moment  on  one  or  two  leading  types.  I cannot 
ignore  the  distinction  and  the  power  which  Mr.  Davies 
showed  in  his  “Design:  Birth  of  Tragedy,”  and  in 
another  drawing  of  a seated  figure  which  hung  near 
by.  In  him,  for  once  at  least,  we  meet  a man  of 
ideas  and  a man  with  distinction  of  style.  There  was 
good  reason,  too,  for  lingering  before  the  four  or  five 
paintings  by  George  Bellows.  His  “Docks  in  Win- 
ter,” his  “Polo  Crowd”  and  his  “Circus”  stamped 
him  as  an  artist  with  an  outlook  of  his  own,  a power- 
ful technique,  the  makings  of  a style,  and  a dynamic 
force  which  stirs  us  as  we  are  stirred  by  some  trium- 


1 68 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


phant  masculine  gesture.  In  his  work,  too,  as  in 
much  else  that  the  exhibition  contained,  we  find  the 
note  of  character.  Human  beings  are  portrayed  as 
such  by  him.  If  the  Independents  accomplish  any 
reform  in  contemporary  American  art,  it  promises  to 
be  the  abolition  of  the  lay-figure  and  the  ruthless 
sweeping  away  of  a vast  amount  of  studio  rubbish,  the 
irrelevant  accessories  which  are  dragged  into  so  many 
pictures  as  by  main  strength.  They  are  not  masters 
yet,  these  painters  such  as  Bellows,  Luks,  Glackens, 
Sloan,  Myers,  and  a dozen  others,  and  if  it  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  my  present  purpose,  I could  without 
any  difficulty  indicate  errors  in  this  or  that  painting. 
But  no  matter  how  many  mistakes  are  made,  we  rarely 
encounter  amongst  the  works  of  these  men  the  disas- 
trous mistake  of  painting  men  and  women  as  so  much 
still  life. 

Of  that  pitfall  the  Independents  scarcely  need  to 
be  wary.  Their  avoidance  of  it  is  instinctive.  There 
is  no  necessity  of  warning  Mr.  Guy  Pene  Du  Bois 
against  the  manikin.  His  little  studies  of  New  York 
types,  full  of  technical  promise,  also  show  that  he 
has  the  root  of  the  matter  in  him  and  is  feeling  his 
way  toward  the  very  essence  of  character.  But  there 
is  one  danger  to  which  many  if  not  all  of  the  Independ- 
ents are  exposed,  and  that  is  the  danger  of  scorning 
one  formula,  only  to  become  hidebound  in  the  cultiva- 
tion of  another.  The  reflection  is  invited  especially 
by  a painter  like  Mr.  Robert  Henri.  In  his  re- 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


169 


vival  of  the  mode  of  Manet  he  has  done  a good  quan- 
tity of  prodigiously  clever  work.  Technically  he  is 
one  of  the  most  sophisticated  and  able  of  our  painters, 
and  when  he  is  in  precisely  the  right  mood,  as  when 
he  made  the  portrait  of  a child  called  “The  Red 
Top,”  he  gives  us  a lasting  satisfaction.  This  is  tech- 
nique that  is  worth  while,  technique  wreaked  upon 
a little  slice  of  life  and  somehow  endued  with  the 
breath  of  individuality.  But  when  we  contemplate 
this  artist’s  “Figure  in  Motion,”  a full-length  nude, 
it  is  in  no  spirit  of  paradox  that  we  think  automat- 
ically of  a chef  dlecole  like  Bouguereau.  At  bottom 
this  motive,  like  the  motive  characteristic  of  the 
French  Academician,  savors  of  the  well-worn  studio 
mechanism.  It  is  professorial  work,  sound  in  its  way, 
like  Bouguereau’s,  but  still  professorial.  One  divines 
the  proficient  teacher,  sure  of  his  recipe,  knowing  so 
well  how  to  draw  and  model  in  just  that  way,  but  in 
the  long  run  transmitting  to  the  pupil  only  a certain 
uninspired  adroitness.  There  is  no  personality  here. 
Neither  is  there  any  style.  The  figure  lives  and  moves, 
no  doubt,  and  yet  as  a work  of  art  the  canvas  seems 
empty.  That,  I repeat,  is  what  the  Independents 
have  to  fear.  The  artist  cannot  live  by  manual  dex- 
terity alone.  He  must  think  and  feel,  and,  above 
all,  he  must  strongly  individualize  what  he  does. 
Whether  this  memorable  Salon  is  to  prove  a really 
helpful  and  constructive  influence  or  is  presently  to 
be  forgotten  as  having  provided  no  more  than  the 


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170 


passing  sensation  of  a winter,  depends  altogether  upon 
the  seriousness  of  the  changes  flowing  from  it.  Are 
the  Independents  to  repeat,  each  man  in  his  own  way, 
Mr.  Weir’s  deeply  significant  experience?  Are  they 
to  use  their  technique  in  the  highest  service  of  that 
truth  and  energy  in  which  they  are  so  rich,  and  prove 
that  they  have  something  to  say  to  which  people  of 
discrimination  are  willing  to  listen?  They  cannot 
burke  these  questions,  and,  if  the  wholesome  atmos- 
phere of  the  exhibition  goes  for  anything,  they  will 
not  try  to. 

IV 

It  was  a pleasant  thing  to  be  released  from  a sys- 
tematic examination  of  this  exhibition,  to  drift  about 
and  enjoy  certain  pieces  for  themselves,  regardless  of 
their  relation,  if  they  had  any,  to  a school  or  a move- 
ment. My  final  sheaf  of  impressions,  thus  gathered, 
embraced  works  of  art  old  and  new,  some  of  which 
wore  an  almost  classical  air  and  others  which,  if  in 
no  wise  revolutionary,  were  at  any  rate  significant 
of  progressive  ideals.  Among  the  familiar  friends  the 
first  and  most  arresting  was  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  who 
was  represented  by  some  beautiful  paintings  and 
drawings.  It  was  good  to  see  again  his  famous  “La 
Decollation  de  Saint  Jean-Baptiste,”  that  perfect  sou- 
venir of  his  state  of  mind  in  1869,  when  his  predilec- 
tion for  the  naive  simplicity  of  the  Italian  Primitives 
was  not  incompatible  with  a certain  rude  dramatic 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


171 


force  and  a rich  quality  in  his  pigment.  There  was, 
too,  in  his  little  “Femme  Nue,”  another  delightful 
page  from  his  earlier  history,  a page  in  which  simple 
realism  is  faintly  touched  but  not  yet  transmogrified 
by  the  grand  style  to  which  he  was  ultimately  to 
dedicate  his  genius.  Puvis  steadily  simplified  as  he 
went  on,  fixing  himself  in  that  solemn,  heroic  mood 
which  we  know  in  his  great  mural  decorations.  More 
and  more  he  sought  the  monumental  motive,  and  as 
he  did  so  allied  his  work  with  those  majestic  types  of 
creative  art  the  special  note  of  which  has  something 
abstract  and  universal  about  it.  In  the  paintings  at 
the  Armory  he  was  more  intimate,  more  personal, 
more  artlessly  human.  They  were  curiously  refresh- 
ing. 

It  was  interesting  to  turn  from  them  to  our  own 
imaginative  painter,  Albert  P.  Ryder,  and  to  the 
French  symbolist,  Odilon  Redon.  Ryder  is  akin  to 
Puvis  in  the  elevation  of  his  ideas  and  in  his  inde- 
pendence of  convention,  but  if  I may  compare  the 
two  in  terms  of  poetry — and  both  are  strongly  poetic 
in  temperament — I may  say  that  Puvis  moves  on  the 
vast  plane  of  the  epic  and  Ryder  is  all  for  the  jet  of 
lyrical  emotion  and  the  world  well  lost.  The  Ameri- 
can is  wonderful  in  his  color,  using  a thick,  “fat”  im- 
pasto  and  turning  his  picture  into  a kind  of  deep, 
clouded  opal.  He  is  romantic  and  he  is  spiritual. 
He  paints  his  poetic  or  religious  themes  with  great 
depth  of  feeling  and  at  the  same  time  with  a sensu- 


172 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


ous,  mundane  passion.  He,  too,  like  Puvis,  “washes 
the  eyes”  and  gives  us  a refined,  exquisite  pleasure. 
Redon  is  a singular  figure.  He  shares  the  disposi- 
tion of  Puvis  to  look  beyond  the  sphere  of  every-day 
familiar  things;  but  Puvis  was  never  dehumanized, 
and  Redon,  going  fairly  over  the  rim  of  the  world 
for  his  themes,  ends  by  suggesting  not  so  much  im- 
agination as  fancy.  He  is  a kind  of  Gustave  Moreau 
manque,  playing  with  an  inspiration  that  is  always 
promising  something  strange  and  beautiful,  but  not 
quite  fulfilling  itself.  He  is  too  symbolical  by  half, 
painting  dreams  that  are  altogether  too  insubstantial, 
dreams  of  which  you  are  inclined  to  say  not  that 
they  might  mean  anything  but  that  they  mean  noth- 
ing at  all.  In  his  design,  and,  in  fact,  in  all  the  mi- 
nutiae of  his  technique,  he  repeats  this  suggestion  of  an 
art  not  sufficiently  sure  of  itself.  His  one  outstand- 
ing virtue  is  an  undeniable  beauty  of  color,  though 
this,  too,  crops  out  in  the  isolated  passage  rather 
than  in  any  well-organized  harmony.  It  is  amusing 
to  reflect  on  what  Redon  might  do  if  he  had  some 
of  the  dogged  force  characteristic  of  Moreau,  just  as 
it  is  amusing  to  think  of  a Moreau  exchanging  his 
turgid  surfaces  and  his  morbid  color  for  the  piercing 
yet  suave  tones  which  from  time  to  time  come  within 
Redon’s  scope. 

There  were  divers  other  French  painters  whom  it 
was  good  to  encounter  in  this  exhibition.  Manet’s 
“Portrait,”  an  easy  spontaneous  study  in  dark  tones, 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


173 


proved  one  of  the  most  fascinating  bits  of  painting 
by  him  I had  seen  in  a long  time.  There  were  good 
examples  of  Monet,  Renoir  and  others  of  their  circle. 
From  the  modern  Dutch  school  we  had  a superb 
group  of  pictures  by  Matthew  Maris,  and  in  the 
American  wing  one  could  apprehend  Whistler,  not 
only  in  a characteristic  portrait,  but  in  a copy  of 
the  “Andromeda”  of  Ingres,  full  of  interest  as  a relic 
of  his  youth.  I may  allude  with  warm  sympathy  also 
to  the  picturesque  screens  painted  by  Mr.  Robert 
L.  Chanler,  novel  schemes  remarkably  well  exe- 
cuted. But  of  all  the  painters  not  hitherto  touched 
upon  in  my  survey  of  this  collection  the  one  upon 
whom  it  is  perhaps  most  inviting  to  pause  is  the 
Englishman,  Augustus  John,  simply  because  he  is  the 
newest  of  recent  reputations  having  a serious  basis. 
In  London  he  is  already  a legend.  The  more  esoteric 
reviewers  of  artistic  affairs  have  there  been  wont  to 
deal  cavalierly  enough  with  the  average  exhibition, 
until  they  have  come  upon  this  master  of  a lately 
formed  school  or  group.  Then  they  say  that  the 
show  contains  “an  Augustus  John,”  as  who  should 
say,  “it  contains  one  of  the  rarest  of  the  old  masters.” 
A few  of  his  drawings  have  strayed  over  to  the  United 
States  and  left  a fine  impression,  but  we  had  not  be- 
fore had  the  chance  to  see  here  what  the  man’s  art 
is  really  like. 

It  is  distinguished  art.  You  feel  at  once  that  Mr. 
John  has  an  inborn  gift  and  an  individual  habit  of 


174 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


using  it.  At  the  same  time  he  is  momentarily- 
puzzling.  It  was  not  clear  upon  this  occasion  that 
he  was  getting  all  that  might  be  got  out  of  his 
natural  resources,  and  presently  one  began  to  see 
why.  It  was  because  he  is  a realist  by  instinct, 
mistakingly  trying  to  be  something  else.  The  picture 
called  “The  Way  Down  to  the  Sea,”  the  largest,  most 
important  work  he  showed,  aptly  illustrates  the  point. 
In  attitude  and  gesture,  as  well  as  in  the  broad  lines 
of  the  composition,  he  unmistakably  endeavors  to  in- 
vest his  subject  with  some  peculiar  meaning,  as  though 
he  would  imaginatively  enhance  the  significance  of  a 
quite  ordinary  act.  In  the  faces,  too,  he  would  ap- 
pear to  be  expressing  some  recondite  mood.  But  in 
the  upshot  all  this  remains  dark  to  the  observer,  who 
wonders  why  a group  of  peasants  descending  to  the 
shore  should  proceed  as  upon  some  ritualistic  business. 
The  specious,  mixed  purpose  of  the  design  reacts  upon 
the  artist’s  technique.  He  is  hard  and  stilted  where 
one  surmises  a healthier,  more  direct  conception  of 
the  whole  subject  would  have  encouraged  him  to 
paint  better.  Now  if  only  this  picture  had  been 
brought  over,  we  fear  that  the  fervors  of  Mr.  John’s 
London  critics  would  have  remained  more  mysterious 
than  ever.  But  these  were  at  least  partially  explained 
by  his  other  works. 

The  drawings  were  very  beautiful,  and  in  them 
there  was  none  of  the  stiffness  which  is  so  distressing 
in  the  painting  just  traversed.  Mr.  John’s  line  is  deli- 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


175 


cate  and  free.  In  some  of  his  heads  he  seems  a Burne- 
Jones  raised  to  a higher  power;  in  others  just  a clever 
disciple  of  Leonardo,  with  a shrewd  aptitude  for  that 
witchery  of  waving  hair  which  so  often  beguiled  the 
great  Florentine.  But  in  the  main  this  English 
draughtsman  has  a style  of  his  own  and  employs  it 
with  equal  strength  and  charm.  Decidedly  his  draw- 
ings prove  that  he  is  worth  knowing,  and  appreciation 
grew  on  examination  of  his  smaller  works  in  color, 
studies  of  peasants,  British  and  Continental,  which 
were  full  of  character  and  movement,  full  of  subtle  ex- 
pression, and  had  into  the  bargain  technical  originality 
and  power.  There  were  other  British  painters  rep- 
resented — the  graceful,  amusing  Conder,  and  Mr. 
Nathaniel  Hone,  whose  two  coast  scenes  were  ingrati- 
ating in  their  robust  yet  fine  grays.  But  in  this  sec- 
tion it  was  really  a case  of  Augustus  John  first  and 
the  rest  nowhere. 

There  were  two  departments  in  which  the  show 
was,  on  the  whole,  disappointing.  The  sculptors  did 
not  by  any  means  make  a strong  contingent.  Bour- 
delle was  the  most  interesting  of  the  foreigners.  He 
has  a large  and  even  impressive  sense  of  form,  and 
in  design  is  not  without  some  faculty  of  invention. 
“Une  Muse,”  a piece  in  high  relief,  contained  some 
fine  linear  passages,  it  was  decorative  without  triv- 
iality and  left  altogether  an  impression  of  vitalized 
simplicity.  The  pseudo-mediaevalism  of  Wilhelm 
Lembruch  was  only  ephemerally  attractive.  Among 


iy6 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


the  American  sculptures  there  were  some  small  pieces 
of  value,  notably  the  closely  studied,  sensitive  and 
very  personal  animal  subjects  by  Arthur  Putnam,  and 
Mr.  J.  E.  Fraser’s  group  of  plaques.  Mr.  George 
Gray  Barnard  admirably  asserted  himself,  too,  and 
there  were  some  clever  things  by  Mr.  Mahonri  Young. 
Nevertheless,  when  one  had  scrutinized  these  few 
examples  of  plastic  art  one  had  comprehended  the 
whole  story.  The  sculpture  as  a whole  left  the  spec- 
tator terribly  cold.  So  likewise  in  respect  to  the 
black-and-white  contributions.  A few  of  the  older 
draughtsmen  saved  the  day,  Ingres,  Puvis  and  Rodin, 
with  Toulouse-Lautrec  and  one  or  two  other  for- 
eigners upholding  their  hands.  Then  there  were,  of 
course,  the  three  or  four  drawings  by  Mr.  Davies. 
But  for  the  rest  it  can  hardly  be  said  that  the  innu- 
merable drawings  in  ink,  pencil,  chalk  and  so  on  at 
all  justified  the  space  assigned  to  them.  It  would  be 
beside  the  mark  to  lay  stress  upon  the  interest  which 
attached  to  some  of  them  because  of  their  humor  or 
of  their  fidelity  to  fragments  of  fife  observed  at  our 
doors.  Here  if  anywhere  we  want  style  and  freshness, 
the  exceptional  and  brilliant  stroke.  Average  sketch- 
book stuff  has  no  place  in  a Salon  of  the  Independents. 
But  it  did  not  seriously  matter;  there  was  so  much 
in  the  show  that  was  worth  while.  As  I took  leave 
of  it  I had  but  one  thought,  and  that  was  of  gratitude 
to  the  Association  of  American  Painters  and  Sculptors. 
And  I could  not  but  smile  over  the  hysterical  denunci- 


A Memorable  Exhibition 


1 77 


ations  of  what  this  body  of  artists  had  done,  by  alarm- 
ists in  terror  of  Cubist  and  kindred  influences.  Is 
American  art  so  wanting  in  American  energy  and  in- 
telligence that  it  is  bound  supinely  to  succumb  to 
every  deleterious  movement  that  swings  into  view? 
Are  the  youths  studying  to  be  painters  and  sculptors 
so  impressionable  and,  withal,  so  mindless  and  un- 
stable, that  they  cannot  be  trusted  to  look  upon  things 
new  and  strange,  even  monstrous,  without  fear  of  col- 
lapse? The  questions  answer  themselves.  If  the  day 
ever  comes  when  American  art  cannot  subsist  save 
in  wrappings  of  cotton-wool,  then  it  will  behoove 
American  art  to  put  up  the  shutters. 


VIII 

Whistler 


VIII 


WHISTLER 

I 

Who  was  Charles  Gleyre?  To  ask  and  to  answer 
that  question  in  approaching  the  art  of  the  late  James 
McNeill  Whistler  is  to  draw  much  nearer,  I think,  to 
what  is  interesting  in  the  genesis  of  that  art,  than  if 
we  seek  to  learn  where  and  when  the  American  painter 
and  etcher  was  born,  who  his  parents  were,  and  all 
the  other  things  that  are  supposed  to  count,  and  usu- 
ally do  count,  in  the  development  of  a man’s  genius. 
In  Whistler’s  case  they  do  not  count  at  all,  and  only 
the  compilers  of  reference-books  need  trouble  them- 
selves about  the  vexed  question  as  to  whether  he  was 
born  in  1834  or  1835,  in  Baltimore  or  St.  Petersburg. 
He  was,  himself,  always  rather  mysterious  on  these 
points.  Perhaps  he  realized  their  unimportance,  and, 
in  his  quizzical  way,  amused  himself  by  evading  the 
importunities  of  the  intrusive  biographer.  No,  the 
first  salient  fact  by  which  we  are  confronted  in  his 
record  is  his  entrance  into  Gleyre’s  studio  in  1856, 
and  so  I return  to  my  question. 

Gleyre  was  a born  classicist,  a devoted  conservator 
181 


182 


Whistler 


of  those  principles  upon  which  Ingres  had  placed  his 
imprimatur,  — the  only  principles,  as  they  thought, 
which  it  was  rational  for  French  art  to  follow.  Ob- 
viously they  were,  in  a measure,  wrong.  Gericault 
proved  it,  Delacroix  proved  it,  the  works  of  all  the 
Romantic  and  Naturalistic  painters,  both  figure  com- 
positions and  landscapes,  remain  an  irrefragable  proof 
that  Ingres  and  Gleyre  went  too  far  in  their  academic 
fury  against  all  things  not  academic.  Less  obviously, 
perhaps,  but  conclusively  enough,  they  were,  in  a 
measure,  right.  At  least  they  were  in  harmony  with 
the  French  genius;  at  least  they  preached,  in  their 
gospel  of  “the  rectitude  of  art,”  the  truth  that  is  at 
the  bottom  of  the  most  characteristic  things  in  the 
Salon  to-day.  But  Gleyre,  as  Whistler’s  master, 
ceases  for  the  moment  to  represent  the  continuity  of 
French  practice— -he  becomes  a protagonist  in  the 
great  artistic  quarrel  of  the  nineteenth  century,  that 
between  tradition  and  temperament.  Looking  back 
at  the  pair  in  those  early  days,  both  men  are  perceived 
in  a peculiarly  interesting  light.  Gleyre  stands  for 
everything  that  has  been  formulated  and  accepted. 
Whistler,  a mere  youth,  is  already  bent  upon  revolu- 
tion, and  the  odd  thing  is  that  all  his  resources  for 
the  struggle  were  accumulated  in  his  own  nature;  he 
drew  nothing  from  the  comrades  who,  like  himself, 
sought  an  outlet  from  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  the 
Academy.  That  is  why  his  period  of  pupilage  is  so 
important  to  remember.  Even  then  he  was  a kind 


Whistler 


183 


of  solitary,  the  influence  of  Gleyre  only  serving  to 
accentuate  his  detachment  from  the  reigning  school. 
Never  in  later  life  did  he  more  vividly  demonstrate 
his  title  to  a place  apart  in  modern  art  than  when  he 
defied  the  very  representative  of  officialdom  to  whom 
he  had  come  to  be  taught. 

I have  said  that  he  drew  nothing  from  his  more 
independent  comrades.  Degas  was  among  them;  he 
knew  other  Frenchmen  since  become  celebrated,  like 
that  painter,  for  successful  rebellion  against  routine, 
and  he  shared  in  their  high  erected  talk.  He  did  not 
share  in  any  of  their  new  movements  to  the  extent 
of  trying  to  do  what  they  were  trying  to  do,  save  for 
a brief  emulation  of  Courbet.  If  he  suffered  rejec- 
tion with  Manet,  for  example,  from  the  Salon,  and 
thereupon  sought  recompense,  with  that  artist,  in  the 
Salon  des  Refuses,  it  was  by  virtue  of  qualities  en- 
tirely his  own,  and  bearing  the  stamp  of  no  school, 
impressionistic  or  what  not,  that  he  was  scorned  in 
the  one  place  and  welcomed  in  the  other.  I name 
Manet  at  this  point  because  the  contrast  between  his 
work  and  Whistler’s  in  their  time  of  trial  is  especially 
suggestive.  The  Frenchman’s  great  sensation  in  the 
Salon  des  Refuses  of  1863  was  made  with  his  now 
famous  — then  merely  notorious  — “Le  Dejeuner  sur 
l’Herbe.”  The  American  sent  “ La  Femme  Blanche,” 
the  first  of  his  three  early  Symphonies  in  White.  The 
position  taken  by  both  painters  amounted  in  effect 
to  this:  that  they  cared  nothing  for  subject  as  sub- 


1 84 


Whistler 


ject,  but  were  solicitous  solely  for  the  charm  to  be 
got  out  of  the  sheer  manipulation  of  paint.  The  dif- 
ference between  them,  beginning  in  temperament, 
ended  in  something  like  a total  separation  of  their 
ideals.  To  Manet  the  incongruity  of  his  nude  bather, 
grouped,  beneath  the  trees  near  a stream,  with  two 
men  in  the  coats  and  trousers  of  modern  life,  was  of 
no  earthly  consequence.  He  was  not  painting  an 
anecdote,  he  was  painting  an  effect  of  light  and  air. 
But  he  really  gives  us  more  than  this,  he  puts  life 
into  his  figures  and  his  scene,  the  life  of  the  world  we 
live  in,  something  that  moves  and  breathes  and  has  a 
very  human  interest.  Brilliant  as  a technician,  Manet 
was  most  brilliant  in  putting  his  technique  at  the  ser- 
vice of  truth.  What  Velasquez  and  Hals  taught  him 
he  used  in  a large,  robust  spirit.  The  scales  had  fallen 
from  his  eyes.  The  world  was  intensely  real  to  him. 
His  eyes  devoured  the  substance  of  life,  and  his  hands 
thrilled  with  a sense  of  power  as  he  seized  it  and  trans- 
ferred it  to  canvas,  its  vitality  heightened  rather  than 
diminished,  and  its  appeal  directed  to  the  layman, 
caring  for  mankind,  hardly  less  than  to  the  dilettanti 
of  “pure  painting.” 

Whistler  had  felt  the  magic  of  Velasquez,  and  he 
was  weary,  as  Manet  was,  of  the  cold,  sapless  fruits 
of  the  Academy.  But  it  was  no  more  in  his  nature 
to  face  the  truth  as  Manet  faced  it  than  it  was  in  his 
nature  to  emulate  his  contemporary’s  prodigious  vigor. 
“La  Femme  Blanche”  is  not,  like  any  one  of  Manet’s 


Whistler 


185 


figures,  a being  whose  humanity  cannot  be  denied. 
One  sees  in  this  canvas  simply  the  graceful  wearer  of 
a white  dress  which  the  artist  has  wanted  to  paint 
against  a white  curtain,  and  the  same  atmosphere  as 
of  technical  experimentation  hangs  about  “The  Little 
White  Girl  ” of  1864,  and  the  third  of  the  “symphonic ” 
studies,  painted  in  1867.  These  canvases  are  all  in- 
teriors. Not  for  him  the  luminosity,  which,  for  Manet, 
Monet,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  Impressionists,  meant  a 
new  and  indispensable  factor  in  art.  He  sought  cooler 
tones,  in  a still,  sequestered  world  of  his  own;  un- 
troubled by  the  nervous  tension  of  familiar  life;  unlit 
by  anything  so  garish  as  the  sun, — detached,  in  a 
word,  from  ordinary  reality.  Long  afterward,  allu- 
ding to  his  great  portrait  of  his  mother,  which  he  called 
an  “Arrangement  in  Grey  and  Black,”  he  protested 
that  while  its  personal  associations  were  interesting 
to  him,  the  public  could  have  no  legitimate  concern 
with  that  side  of  the  work.  “It  must  stand  or  fall,” 
he  asserted,  “on  its  merits  as  an  arrangement.”  This 
was  his  attitude  in  the  sixties,  when  he  was  feeling 
his  way  toward  the  expression  of  his  ideal,  and  he 
never  abandoned  it.  He  was  furious  with  Mr.  Ham- 
erton  for  complaining,  in  The  Saturday  Review,  that 
there  were  more  varieties  of  tint  in  the  “Symphony 
in  White,  No.  Ill,”  than  could  be  squared  with  a lit- 
eral interpretation  of  the  title.  “Bon  Dieu!”  he  ex- 
claims, “did  this  wise  person  expect  white  hair  and 
chalked  faces?  And  does  he  then,  in  his  astounding 


1 86 


Whistler 


consequence,  believe  that  a symphony  in  F contains 
no  other  note,  but  shall  be  a continued  repetition  of 
F,  F,  F?  . . . Fool!” 

The  critic  had  certainly  committed  a betise,  but 
this  is  not  to  say  that  Whistler  deserved  no  criticism 
at  all  in  those  earlier  days.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
very  easy  to  exaggerate  the  value  of  the  three  paint- 
ings I have  named.  They  are  immensely  interesting 
as  illustrations  of  a kind  of  art  unlike  anything  that 
had  previously  been  done,  and  in  the  middle  member 
of  the  trio  particularly,  the  note  struck  is  not  simply 
so  new,  but  so  charming  that  it  is,  at  first  blush,  a 
little  difficult  to  understand  why  Paris  was  so  slow 
in  applauding  the  painter.  The  truth  is  that  the 
absence  in  Whistler  of  that  power  which  we  have 
seen  in  Manet  was  destined,  not  altogether  unjustly, 
to  keep  him  for  a long  time  out  of  his  own.  Preoc- 
cupied with  the  nuance  of  tone,  trying  to  achieve  in 
painting  an  effect  which  finds  its  parallel  in,  say,  the 
music  of  Chopin,  or  the  poetry  of  Verlaine,  he  neg- 
lected to  so  perfect  himself  in  the  handling  of  his 
brushes  that  one  would  see  his  effects  and  nothing 
else.  As  a matter  of  fact  one  sees  a great  deal  else, 
a point  which  Whistler’s  thick  and  thin  admirers  are 
absurdly  unwilling  to  concede.  “The  work  of  the 
master,”  he  somewhere  says,  “reeks  not  of  the  sweat 
of  the  brow,  — suggests  no  effort,  — and  is  finished 
from  its  beginning.”  Consider  the  want  of  limpidity 
in  the  surfaces,  the  want  of  elasticity  in  the  lines,  of 


Whistler 


187 


the  three  Symphonies  in  White,  and  judge  if  there 
is  no  sign  of  effort  in  those  works.  Of  masterful  ease 
there  is  assuredly  no  suggestion^  Some  charm  of 
tone  is  there,  and  the  savor  of  genius  is  unmistakably 
present,  but  it  is  tone  that  needs  to  take  on  a purer 
transparence;  it  is  genius  that  is  not  yet  in  full  pos- 
session of  itself.  What  Whistler  himself  thought  of 
his  first  essays  in  paint  is  shown  by  an  episode  taken 
from  a much  later  period  in  his  career.  He  found, 
in  an  English  collection,  a picture  he  had  painted, 
and  painted  so  badly  that  he  longed  to  destroy  it. 
So  anxious  was  he  to  do  this  that  he  offered  to  paint 
a full-length  portrait  of  the  owner,  and  another  of  his 
wife,  in  exchange  for  this  ghost  from  his  past! 

If  from  the  start  he  had  been  only  a painter,  the 
explanation  of  his  deficiencies  could  the  more  speedily 
be  found,  but  it  is  one  of  the  interesting  things  about 
Whistler  that,  just  as  he  makes  his  debut  in  painting, 
and  starts  the  critic  on  an  analytic  pursuit,  the  latter 
is  brought  athwart  the  etchings,  and,  for  the  moment, 
must  see  his  subject  in  a very  different  light.  Again 
the  name  of  Gleyre  presents  itself.  Looking  simply 
to  the  three  Symphonies  in  White  one  would  say 
that  he,  to  whom  draughtsmanship  was  as  the  soul 
of  art,  had  not  taught  his  pupil  to  draw.  Not  down 
to  the  end  of  his  career  was  Whistler  to  draw  with 
the  brush  as  most  other  masters  have  drawn,  — mas- 
ters as  unlike  one  another  as  Velasquez,  Titian,  Raph- 
ael, Mantegna  and  Ingres.  But  with  the  etching 


1 88 


Whistler 


needle  in  his  hand  he  drew  as  only  Rembrandt  had 
drawn  before  him,  with  a precision,  a delicacy,  a 
power,  which,  perhaps,  after  all,  not  Ingres  and  Gleyre 
together  could  have  taught  him.  These  qualities  ap- 
peared in  his  first  etchings,  the  French  Set  of  1858; 
and  when  the  Thames  Set  was  finished  a year  or  so 
later,  he  had  developed  hi-s  art  to  a remarkable  point 
of  self-possession  and  force.  Altogether  he  produced 
nearly  four  hundred  plates,  and,  while  they  vary  in 
excellence,  there  is  not  one  in  the  collection  which  is 
without  some  touch  disclosing  the  great  artist. 

For  convenience  these  etchings  may  be  roughly 
divided  into  four  groups.  The  first  two  have  just 
been  named.  In  them,  and  in  the  etchings  of  the 
sixties,  brilliance  both  of  line  and  tone  is  the  predom- 
inating characteristic.  Then,  around  the  early  sev- 
enties, Whistler  modified  his  manner,  sketched  the 
figure  with  a freer  point,  and  often  substituted  for  the 
rich  tones,  the  velvety  blacks  and  deep  browns  of  his 
earlier  plates,  a grayer  and  more  impalpable  veil  of 
color,  approximating  more  to  the  key  of  certain  of  his 
paintings.  Several  years  passed,  and  in  Venice  he 
entered  upon  a new  phase,  exchanging  the  full  firm 
line  of  his  first  plates  for  a looser,  more  stenographic 
form  of  expression.  Thereafter,  in  plates  done  in 
France,  Belgium  and  Holland,  and  in  some  delight- 
ful notes  of  a British  naval  review,  he  adhered  to 
much  the  same  method.  The  point  of  view  from  which 
he  made  all  his  etchings  is  well  exhibited  in  one  of 


Whistler 


189 


his  letters  to  a friend  who  happened  to  be  staying  in 
Stuttgart  at  the  time,  and  had  written  him  of  the 
picturesqueness  of  that  place.  It  all  sounded  delight- 
ful to  him.  He  had  never  visited  Stuttgart  but  im- 
agined its  fascinations,  and  wondered  if  it  wasn’t  full 
of  “quaint  little  daintinesses”  for  him  to  carry  off. 
That  was  ever  his  mood,  one  of  immediate  sympathy 
for  dainty  picturesqueness,  and  what  makes  the  inci- 
dent I have  cited  doubly  characteristic  is  its  indica- 
tion of  his  tendency  to  look  for  that  quality  in  what 
I may  call  the  immobile  aspects  of  a city.  If  he  seeks 
movement  at  all,  it  is  in  the  lines  of  shipping  on  the 
Thames,  or  it  is  in  the  men  and  women  who  enliven 
a street  or  square,  — and  over  these  idlers  or  pass- 
ers-by he  pauses  only  long  enough  deftly  to  summa- 
rize them,  and  to  furnish  his  composition  with  some 
sign  of  life. 

Why  did  he  not  make  more  of  the  human  figure  in 
his  etchings?  He  was  not  altogether  without  resource 
in  this  direction.  In  fact,  some  of  his  portraits,  like 
the  “ Drouet,”  for  example,  or  several  others  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  show  a fine  sense  of  form.  I 
think  the  reason  why  we  find  among  his  plates  none 
of  the  dramatic  figure  subjects  that  we  find  in  the 
etched  work  of  Rembrandt,  whom  he  equals  other- 
wise, is  that  he  was  not  interested  in  human  nature 
for  its  own  sake;  indeed,  I sometimes  wonder  if  he 
was  interested  in  it  at  all,  if  the  passion  and  poetry 
of  life  were  not,  to  him,  a sealed  book.  In  his  Ten 


190 


Whistler 


O’Clock  lecture  Whistler  speaks  of  Art  being  selfishly 
occupied  with  her  own  perfection  only,  having  no  de- 
sire to  teach;  and  in  illustration  of  her  disposition  to 
seek  the  beautiful  in  all  conditions  and  in  all  times, 
he  cites  “her  high  priest”  Rembrandt,  who,  he  goes 
on,  “saw  picturesque  grandeur  and  noble  dignity  in 
the  Jews’  Quarter  of  Amsterdam,  and  lamented  not 
that  its  inhabitants  were  not  Greeks.”  The  point  is 
well  taken,  yet  we  can  imagine  Rembrandt  protesting 
to  Whistler,  — if  they  are  now  somewhere  talking  to- 
gether of  their  earthly  experiences,  — protesting  that 
his  position  in  the  matter  had  been  understated;  that 
he  saw  a good  deal  more  than  picturesque  grandeur 
and  noble  dignity  in  the  Jews’  Quarter  at  Amsterdam 
and  wherever  else  he  sought  his  models;  that  he  saw, 
and  felt,  the  emotions  by  which  the  faces  of  those 
models  were  marked,  by  which  their  frames  had  been 
made  significant  of  the  soul’s  travail.  We  cannot 
imagine  Whistler  illustrating  the  Scriptures  as  Rem- 
brandt illustrated  them.  To  have  done  so  he 
would  have  had  to  suffer  a transformation  of  his 
whole  nature,  to  have  learned  that  there  is  more  in 
mankind  than  the  materials  for  an  “arrangement” 
in  line  or  color.  Furthermore,  even  if  he  had  had  an 
impulse  toward  Rembrandt’s  way  of  looking  at  things, 
it  is  probable  that  he  would  have  failed  through  his 
lack  of  anatomical  knowledge.  His  portraits,  I re- 
peat, are  often  masterly,  but  to  put  forth  elaborate 
compositions  he  needed  an  even  greater  command  over 


Whistler 


191 


the  secrets  of  the  figure  than  they  reveal.  I note  the 
fact  with  little  or  no  regret,  however,  for  in  his  chosen 
field  Whistler  made  such  beautiful  etchings  that  it 
would  be  foolish  to  wish  that  he  had  done  something 
else. 

Architecture,  seemingly  so  fixed  a phenomenon, 
nevertheless  presents  itself  to  different  eyes  with  the 
most  drastic  differences.  To  Meryon  it  is  again  and 
again  a symbol  of  mystery  and  of  eerie,  even  tragic 
beauty.  To  a man  of  the  light  temperament  of  La- 
lanne  it  is  an  affair  of  grace  and  elegance.  To  Whis- 
tler it  meant  a picturesqueness  from  which  now  and 
then  a certain  romantic  glamour  might  seem  insep- 
arable, but  which  he  sought  to  express  quite  unemo- 
tionally. We  know  what  he  could  see  in  the  Thames: 
“The  evening  mist  clothes  the  riverside  with  poetry 
as  with  a veil,  and  the  poor  buildings  lose  themselves 
in  the  dim  sky,  and  the  tall  chimneys  become  cam- 
panili,  and  the  warehouses  are  palaces  in  the  night, 
and  the  whole  city  hangs  in  the  heavens  and  fairy- 
land is  before  us.”  But  it  was  as  the  colorist,  as  the 
painter,  that  he  wrote  these  words.  As  an  etcher  it 
was  not  fairyland  that  he  saw,  whether  on  the  Thames 
or  in  Venice,  it  was  simply  a world  of  picturesque 
buildings  and  boats,  dim  arches  that  held  subtle  beau- 
ties of  light  and  shade,  delicate  traceries  of  stone  or 
metal  that  made  in  his  plates  an  effective  “pattern.” 
There  is  poetry  in  it,  the  sensuous  poetry  that  appeals 
solely  to  the  eye.  It  has  none  of  the  deeper  implica- 


192 


Whistler 


tions  of  the  art  produced  by  a man  looking,  involun- 
tarily, beneath  the  surface.  But  let  us  have  done 
with  qualifications.  In  his  own  sphere  of  etching 
Whistler  is  incomparable. 

Edmond  de  Goncourt,  in  that  amazing  journal 
which  preserves  so  much  of  the  gossip  he  and  his 
brother  loved,  quotes  Legros  as  saying  to  him,  in 
1882,  ‘‘Whistler,  oui,  c’est  pas  mal  . . . c’est  de  la 
jolie  eau-forte  d’amateur!”  How,  I wonder,  could 
an  artist  as  accomplished  as  Legros  was  himself  utter 
a remark  like  this!  If  there  is  one  thing  more  than 
another  which  is  demonstrated  by  Whistler’s  etchings 
it  is  that  in  them  he  enjoys  absolute  control  of  his 
needle;  that  here  he  is  a master  from  whom  no  se- 
crets of  technique  are  hid.  It  is  not  simply  that  he 
is  letter-perfect,  so  to  say,  that  he  abides  by  every 
canon  of  the  art.  It  is  that  from  beginning  to  end 
his  style  seems  to  have  been  so  sinewy,  so  strong,  so 
wonderfully  buoyant.  At  the  outset  his  line  is  forcible 
and  clear.  It  is  often  deeply  bitten,  and  while  he 
knows  well  what  to  omit,  he  gives  one  an  impression 
— notably  in  the  Thames  set  — of  objects  patiently 
observed  and  very  carefully  noted.  In  his  later  Ve- 
netian studies  he  skims  the  copper  with  a lighter 
hand,  leaves  out  a great  deal  more  detail,  secures  the 
tenderest  atmospheric  effects,  and,  in  brief,  refines 
his  art  without  losing  any  strength.  All  through  the 
long  succession  of  plates  he  enchants  us  with  his  fac- 
ulty for  extorting  from  his  material  the  loveliest  webs 


Whistler 


193 


of  line,  the  loveliest  passages  of  tone.  He  is  superb 
in  composition,  whether  he  be  etching  the  old  tene- 
ments that  line  the  Thames,  with  rocking  masts  and 
the  delicate  lines  of  rigging  to  break  the  monotony  of 
their  homely  facades,  or  is  commemorating  some  in- 
finitely more  romantic  theme  in  France  or  Venice. 
He  is  always  sufficiently  pictorial,  no  matter  what  his 
subject  may  be,  and  always  conscious  of  the  special 
quality  of  the  etcher’s  art,  knowing  how  to  adjust 
his  material  to  it,  seeking  the  lines  that  will  best 
form  an  interesting  arabesque.  His  style  is  unique. 
No  etcher  in  the  past,  not  Rembrandt  or  Claude;  no 
one  in  his  own  time,  not  Meryon  or  Haden,  ever  saw 
his  subject  quite  as  he  saw  it,  or  handled  it  quite  as 
he  handled  it.  All  those  masters  have  qualities  which 
he  lacked.  We  have  observed  how  Rembrandt  out- 
soars  him  in  intellectual  and  spiritual  grasp.  Whis- 
tler could  never  interpret  landscape  as  Haden  has  in- 
terpreted it.  But  in  strength  and  beauty  of  line,  in 
brilliance  of  style,  Whistler’s  etchings  form  a body  of 
work  with  which  the  masterpieces  of  Rembrandt  and 
Haden  are  alone  worthy  to  be  grouped.  I have  seen, 
written  by  him  on  a proof  of  one  of  Rembrandt’s 
noblest  portraits,  these  words:  “Without  flaw. 

Beautiful  as  a Greek  marble  or  a canvas  by  Tintoret. 
A masterpiece  in  all  its  elements,  beyond  which  there 
is  nothing.”  The  familiar  butterfly  affixed  to  this 
tribute  carried  a discomfiting  suggestion  with  it. 
Could  any  of  the  works  of  art  bearing  that  dainty 


194 


Whistler 


emblem  deserve  such  heroic  praise?  Perhaps  not. 
Whistler  never  rose,  like  Rembrandt,  to  the  heroic 
plane.  Nevertheless,  so.  far  as  they  go,  his  etchings 
are  “ without  flaw.” 

In  all  the  years  from  which  they  date  he  was  stead- 
ily painting  portraits  and  pictures.  Finding  no  en- 
couragement in  Paris  he  soon  went  to  live  in  London, 
where  he  made  his  home  for  many  years.  He  could 
hardly  expect  to  find  in  Chelsea  a more  sympathetic 
environment  than  he  had  found  in  Paris,  but  too  much 
has  been  made  of  what  his  surroundings  may  have 
signified  to  him  in  either  place.  For  a painter  of  his 
predilections  the  only  things  needful  were  a studio 
and  an  occasional  patron.  He  did  not  paint  French 
life  when  he  was  in  France.  He  never  thought  of 
painting  English  life  when  he  came  to  England,  but 
went  on  along  the  lines  laid  down  in  those  Sym- 
phonies in  White  to  which  I have  already  referred. 
Some  commentators  have  been  astonished  at  his  inti- 
macy with  Rossetti.  It  was  entirely  natural.  The 
fact  that  they  did  not  paint  in  the  same  fashion  is 
beside  the  question.  Where  they  were  absolutely 
united  was  in  preferring,  as  artists,  a kind  of  cur- 
tained existence,  in  which  they  could  ignore  the  claims 
of  the  schools  and  the  world  in  general,  and  make 
pictures  as  far  removed  from  the  joys  and  troubles 
of  mere  humanity  as  so  many  pieces  of  Oriental  por- 
celain. Rossetti,  embracing  with  enthusiasm  the  pre- 
Raphaelite  ideal  of  fidelity  to  nature,  never  took  the 


Whistler 


195 


trouble  to  learn  how  to  paint,  so  that  he  might  put 
the  truth  on  canvas  with  some  degree  of  accuracy. 
He  cared  not  for  the  scenes  outside  his  house  and 
garden,  but  for  the  scenes  in  the  poets.  He  dreamed 
iridescent  dreams,  and,  reflecting  them  in  his  work 
after  his  own  self-willed  esoteric  fashion,  was  con- 
tent. He  and  Whistler  must  have  been  vastly  pleased 
with  themselves  as  they  stood  aloof  from  everything 
that  was  making  the  history  of  their  time,  and,  with 
scornful  chuckles,  cultivated  each  his  hidden  plot  of 
ground.  Whistler  was  the  surer  of  remaining  com- 
paratively undisturbed  in  his  seclusion  because  of  his 
rare  gift  for  quarrelling.  He  was  a difficult  man 
to  get  on  with,  and  the  wrecks  of  friendships  were 
scattered  through  his  career  in  appalling  profusion. 
It  is  said  that  there  still  survives  somewhere  a por- 
trait he  painted  of  the  late  Mr.  Naylor  Leyland, 
after  he  had  decorated  the  famous  Peacock  Room 
in  that  gentleman’s  London  house,  and  had  parted 
from  him  in  a rage.  In  this  portrait  the  mild-man- 
nered collector  is  given  horns  and  hoofs,  and  is  trans- 
formed into  a ramping  devil.  The  tale  does  no  in- 
justice to  Whistler,  who  loved  the  fray,  and,  when 
offended,  was  capable  of  taking  a stinging  revenge. 
He  made  himself  feared,  in  short,  and,  even  in  the 
midst  of  society,  that  must  have  helped  to  create  a 
spiritual  loneliness  for  him.  If  he  suffered  any  loss 
thereby  he  never  knew  it.  Supremely  self-centred, 
he  threw  himself  into  his  work  and  exploited  his  own 


196 


Whistler 


ideas  with  an  absorption  and  a conviction  of  right 
which  we  cannot  but  admire. 

The  results  of  his  labors,  portraits,  marines,  and  pic- 
tures like  the  “ Fireworks  at  Cremorne,”  which  proved 
such  a memorable  stumbling-block  to  Mr.  Ruskin, 
were,  in  general,  slow  in  forthcoming.  Was  it  his  early 
distaste  for  rudimentary  instruction  that  left  him 
handicapped,  as  it  were,  and  caused  him  to  proceed 
upon  a canvas,  as  a rule,  with  the  greatest  delibera- 
tion? Or  was  it  that  the  subtlety  of  tone  he  was 
always  seeking  could  not  be  attained  at  a stroke? 
There  are  stories  of  the  miraculous  facility  with  which 
he  could  paint  a picture,  of  the  consummate  skill  with 
which  he  could  brush  in  a detail,  without  a moment’s 
hesitation,  leaving  it  perfect.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  at  the  Ruskin  trial  he  testified  that  he  had 
painted  the  “ Fireworks  at  Cremorne”  in  “about  a 
day.”  The  point,  he  thought,  was  immaterial,  for 
in  asking  two  hundred  guineas  for  the  picture  he  ar- 
gued that  he  was  asking  to  be  paid,  not  for  the  work 
of  a day,  but  for  “the  knowledge  of  a lifetime.”  The 
question,  however,  of  whether  he  was  a rapid  or  a 
slow  painter,  a sure  or  a hesitating  one,  is  interesting, 
for  it  really  bears  upon  the  essential  character  of  his 
art. 

It  is  not,  in  respect  to  technique,  with  the  grand 
masters  that  he  is  to  be  grouped.  One  of  the  traits  of 
those  masters  is  a certain  momentum,  as  of  a creative 
force  passing  through  the  world,  boldly,  majestically, 


Whistler 


197 


and  leaving  landmarks  in  its  wake.  It  is  not  Rubens 
alone  who  suggests  this  idea  of  propulsive  energy  and 
great  weight,  or  Michael  Angelo,  or  Hals.  The  serene 
Velasquez  also  suggests  it.  We  have  all  heard  a 
great  deal  about  Whistler’s  resemblance  to  the  Span- 
iard, and  it  is  there,  but  not  where  the  central  springs 
of  action,  the  very  divine  spark  of  genius  and  its  free 
fruitful  movements,  are  concerned.  The  greatest  art, 
no  matter  how  complex  in  design  it  may  be,  is  unmis- 
takably spontaneous.  Whistler’s  art  was  not  of  that 
highest  order;  it  is  more  apt  to  suggest  the  slow  and 
painstaking  building  up  of  an  effect.  Where  you  find 
the  resemblance  between  him  and  Velasquez  is  in  the 
gradations  that  he  gets  out  of  blacks  and  grays  and 
whites;  in  the  simplicity  with  which  he  poses  a figure 
against  a neutral  background;  in  the  texture  of  his 
color  throughout.  We  may  go  further  and  say  that 
he  had  a sense  of  values  akin  to  that  of  Velasquez 
himself.  But  if  we  keep  in  mind  what  Whistler  was 
driving  at,  and  what  he  actually  accomplished,  we 
must  admit  that  a meaning  he  never  intended  can 
easily  be  read  into  his  much-quoted  retort,  “Why 
drag  in  Velasquez?”  For  one  thing,  Velasquez,  as 
Whistler  himself  pointed  out,  “made  his  people  live 
within  their  frames,  and  stand  upon  their  legs.”  That 
was  not  precisely  Whistler’s  own  aim,  except  in  a few 
rare  instances.  His  figures  are  not  so  much  human 
beings,  living  within  their  frames  and  standing  upon 
their  legs,  as  they  are  lovely  apparitions,  alluring  vi- 


198 


Whistler 


sions  of  charming  women  gliding  through  some  place 
of  dim  lights  and  hovering  shadows.  The  portrait 
of  Lady  Meux,  known  as  the  “Harmony  in  Pink  and 
Gray,”  may  or  may  not  be  a good  portrait.  There  is 
no  mistaking  its  beauty  as  a piece  of  color,  a har- 
mony really  musical  in  its  purity  and  sweetness. 
Again,  in  lower  keys,  the  portrait  of  Miss  Rosa  Corder, 
“Arrangement  in  Black  and  Brown,  ” and  the  study  in 
the  same  colors  known  as  “The  Fur  Jacket,”  a simi- 
lar impression  of  something  faint,  elusive,  and  most 
delicately  sensuous  is  conveyed.  There  are  other 
portraits  which  recur  to  me,  particularly  “ La  Dame 
au  Brodequin  Jaune,”  and  the  dainty  portrait  of  Miss 
Alexander,  “Harmony  in  Gray  and  Green,”  a pic- 
ture of  childhood,  which  has  no  parallel  in  modern 
art  save  Mr.  Sargent’s  “Little  Miss  Beatrice  Goelet.” 
But  I pass  over  all  these  studies  of  blooming  feminin- 
ity; I pass  over  such  delightfully  decorative  schemes 
as  “The  Balcony,”  “The  Music  Room,”  “The  Gold 
Screen,”  and  “The  Lange  Leizen  of  the  Six  Marks,” 
to  reach  the  two  most  renowned  canvases  that  Whis- 
tler painted  — his  portrait  of  his  mother,  which  now 
hangs  in  the  Luxembourg,  and  the  portrait  of  Carlyle 
in  old  age,  which,  in  recent  years,  has  been  acquired 
by  the  Corporation  of  Glasgow. 

The  bulk  of  his  work  is  charming.  The  “Portrait 
of  the  Artist’s  Mother”  and  the  “Thomas  Carlyle” 
are  much  more  than  that.  To  realize  the  differ- 
ence is  to  see  the  unwisdom  of  being  stampeded  by 


Whistler 


199 


a man’s  fame  into  accepting  everything  he  does  as 
necessarily  a triumph  of  genius.  It  is  well  to  acclaim 
the  genius  of  Whistler.  We  only  darken  counsel  when 
we  grow  hysterical  over  it.  For  my  own  part  I be- 
lieve that  his  numerous  portraits  of  women,  while 
sure  to  survive  as  paintings  of  great  individuality,  and 
of  a very  delicate  beauty,  would  not  carry  Whistler’s 
name  unquestioned  down  to  posterity  if  he  had  not 
also  painted  his  portrait  of  his  mother,  and  the  “Car- 
lyle.” Those  rank  him  with  the  old  masters.  The 
others,  if  they  formed  his  sole  legacy  to  the  galleries 
of  the  world,  would  keep  him  among  the  men  just 
below  the  best.  The  reason  is  obvious  the  moment 
one  puts  prejudice  aside  and  looks  at  things  as  they 
are.  The  mark  of  the  great  picture  in  every  epoch 
has  been  a mark  of  organic  balance.  The  painter 
has  realized  his  conception  with  absolute  felicity. 
Nothing  could  be  added.  Nothing  could  be  taken 
away.  Everything  in  the  picture  — composition, 
drawing,  modelling,  color,  the  personality  of  the  sitter, 
when  the  picture  is  a portrait — contributes  to  one 
end,  and  that  is  a unit  of  beauty.  Can  it  be  said  of 
any  of  Whistler’s  portraits  of  young  women  that  they 
fulfil  these  conditions  as  the  portrait  of  his  mother 
fulfils  them  ? He  may  have  denied  a thousand  times 
our  right  to  interest  ourselves  in  his  mother’s  person- 
ality. Long  after  her  name  and  his,  perhaps,  have 
vanished  from  the  frame,  men  will  look  on  this 
canvas  and  prize  it  as  the  portrait  of  an  individual. 


200 


Whistler 


It  will  be  the  same  with  the  u Carlyle”;  characteriza- 
tion is  of  immense  importance  in  both  works.  But  it 
is  the  rounded  perfection  of  them  that  I would  chiefly 
emphasize,  the  noble  simplicity  with  which,  in  each 
case,  Whistler  has  given  form  to  his  idea. 

The  curtain  and  framed  picture  which  figure  in  the 
background  of  the  portrait  of  his  mother,  the  two 
pictures  and  the  butterfly  introduced  for  the  same 
decorative  purpose  in  the  ‘ Carlyle,”  give  us  no  sense 
of  artificiality,  of  painfully  sought  effect,  that  we  feel 
in  looking  at  so  many  of  what  I may  designate  as 
his  minor  achievements.  In  his  two  unqualifiedly  great 
paintings  he  rises  to  a seriousness  which  he  was  only 
too  seldom  disposed  to  cultivate.  In  them  he  shows 
the  “noble  dignity”  which  he  attributed  to  Rem- 
brandt. Survey  his  work  as  a figure-painter  from 
beginning  to  end  and  it  seems  as  if  all  his  life  he  were 
trying  for  something  wholly  fine,  came  near  it  again 
and  again,  but  only  twice,  when  he  painted  the  por- 
traits I have  chosen,  saw  his  heart’s  desire  satisfied. 
I say  “his  heart’s  desire”  because  at  bottom  he  is  just 
as  faithful  to  himself  in  his  pair  of  masterpieces  as 
in  his  other  paintings.  He  attempted  nothing  new. 
He  did  violence  to  none  of  his  cherished  theories. 
The  two  portraits  are  as  much  “arrangements”  as 
anything  he  ever  painted,  — only  they  are  more  com- 
pletely successful  as  such.  He  is  the  butterfly  here 
as  elsewhere.  This,  indeed,  ought  never  to  be  for- 
gotten, for  even  when  he  holds  his  own  among  the 


Whistler 


201 


old  masters,  it  is  through  his  possession  of  a quality 
quite  different  from  that  to  which  they,  in  the  main, 
owe  their  pre-eminence.  He  is  not  strong  as  they 
are  strong,  he  has  not  their  conquering  might.  Some 
one  has  defined  taste  as  the  feminine  of  genius,  and 
Whistler  is  the  incarnation  of  taste.  Once,  talking 
with  a companion  about  the  energy  and  skill  shown 
by  certain  painters  conspicuous  in  modern  art,  he  re- 
marked, with  a gentle  deprecating  humor  that  robbed 
his  words  of  all  complacence,  that  while  he  admired 
the  men  in  question,  he  could  not  but  feel  that  he  had 
put  something  into  his  own  work  which  theirs  lacked. 
He  called  it  distinction,  and  the  epithet  is  a happy 
one.  Whistler’s  figure-pieces  may  not  carry  us  off 
our  feet,  but  with  a quietude  and  a persuasiveness 
that,  in  these  days  especially,  are  above  rubies,  they 
exert  the  spell  of  high  distinction.  There  have  been 
more  masculine  painters;  but  none  has  surpassed 
him  in  expressing  on  canvas  the  quintessence  of  re- 
finement. 

The  dangers  to  which  an  exemplar  of  this  kind  of 
art  is  exposed  I have  emphasized  in  glancing  at  Whis- 
tler’s minor  portraits,  those  curiously  “precious”  pro- 
ductions that  so  narrowly  escape  unreality,  because 
in  portraiture  an  excessively  decorative  and  too  ex- 
quisite method  is  the  more  seriously  to  be  questioned. 
In  his  Nocturnes,  on  the  other  hand,  and  in  his  other 
daring  variations  on  themes  provided  by  scenes  out- 
of-doors,  Whistler  has  far  less  to  fear.  In  them  he  is 


202 


Whistler 


untroubled  by  any  question  of  form,  he  is  not  handi- 
capped by  the  necessity  of  giving  even  an  approxi- 
mately clear  statement  of  facts.  Returning  again  to 
his  testimony  in  the  suit  he  brought  against  Ruskin, 
we  find  him  admitting,  as  to  the  famous  Fireworks 
picture,  that  “if  it  were  called  a view  of  Cremorne, 
it  would  certainly  bring  about  nothing  but  disap- 
pointment on  the  part  of  the  beholders.”  On  the  same 
occasion,  when  his  “Nocturne  in  Blue  and  Silver” 
was  produced  in  court,  he  said,  “It  represents  Bat- 
tersea Bridge  by  moonlight,”  but  when  Baron  Hud- 
dleston asked  him  if  he  would  describe  the  picture  as 
a correct  representation  of  the  subject,  he  replied, 
“I  did  not  intend  it  to  be  a ‘correct’  portrait  of  the 
bridge.  It  is  only  a moonlight  scene,  and  the  pier  in 
the  centre  of  the  picture  may  not  be  like  the  piers 
at  Battersea  Bridge  as  you  know  them  in  broad  day- 
light. As  to  what  the  picture  represents  that  depends 
upon  who  looks  at  it.  To  some  persons  it  may  rep- 
resent all  that  is  intended;  to  others  it  may  represent 
nothing.  . . . My  whole  scheme  was  only  to  bring 
about  a certain  harmony  of  color.”  With  such  an 
ambition  it  is  clearly  unnecessary  for  a painter  to 
give  any  such  place  to  the  truths  of  nature  as  was 
given  to  them  by,  for  example,  the  members  of  the 
Barbizon  school.  Nature,  in  fact,  merely  provides 
him  with  an  excuse  for  the  exercise  of  his  virtuosity. 

Whistler  is  not  the  only  modern  painter  represent- 
ing this  principle.  Monticelli,  in  his  studies  of  syl- 


Whistler 


203 


van  glades  obscurely  peopled  with  shapes  that  might 
be  those  of  fair  women  or  fairer  wraiths,  invented 
chromatic  splendors  which,  at  their  best,  are  as  dis- 
tinguished in  their  way  as  Whistler’s  elegiac  har- 
monies. Other  men  of  lesser  ability  have  worked  in 
the  same  vein.  The  special  value  of  Whistler’s  Noc- 
turnes resides  in  the  ravishing  beauty  of  their  color, 
the  poetry  of  their  sentiment,  and  the  piquancy  of 
their  style.  He  could,  when  he  chose,  paint  a spark- 
ling little  water-color  of  the  sea,  not  only  beautiful 
but  true;  he  could  paint  a picture  like  his  “Thames  in 
Ice,”  as  realistic  as  a work  of  Courbet’s.  But  he  was 
happiest  in  those  paintings,  like  the  “Crepuscule  in 
Flesh  Color  and  Green,”  “Valparaiso”;  or  the  “Noc- 
turne, Gray  and  Gold,  — Chelsea,  Snow,”  in  which 
our  appreciation  of  the  scene  is  altogether  subsidiary 
to  our  enjoyment  of  the  color  in  which  he  has  envel- 
oped it.  The  two  pyrotechnical  Nocturnes,  “The Fire 
Wheel”  and  “The  Falling  Rocket,”  though  not  per- 
haps his  finest  works  in  this  field,  are  certainly  the 
most  instructive,  for  in  them  he  carried  his  theories 
to  their  ultimate  conclusion,  eschewing  all  tangible 
facts,  and  aiming  at  his  effect  almost  as  though  he 
had  no  pictorial  intention  at  all,  but  were  covering  a 
panel  with  color  as  an  Oriental  craftsman  powders  a 
box  with  gold.  Painting  these  Nocturnes  and  Sym- 
phonies and  Harmonies,  he  gave  to  art  a new  sensa- 
tion, one  in  which  the  more  esoteric  charm  of  his 
genius  is  extraordinarily  beguiling. 


204 


Whistler 


Incidentally  he  showed  to  the  world  his  rare  ver- 
satility. But  still  he  was  not  satisfied,  and  having  given 
his  measure  in  painting  and  etching,  he  insisted  upon 
being  recognized  as  a writer.  He  was  a witty  man, 
and  he  wrote  like  one.  Two  books  stand  to  his  credit. 
“The  Gentle  Art  of  Making  Enemies,”  which  he  pub- 
lished in  1890,  contains  his  account  of  the  Ruskin 
trial,  his  Ten  O’Clock  lecture,  and  a quantity  of  squibs 
and  letters  indited  in  scorn  of  his  critics  and  other 
persons  who  had  annoyed  him.  In  “The  Baronet 
and  the  Butterfly:  a Valentine  with  a Verdict,” 
which  dates  from  1899,  he  set  forth  at  considerable 
length  the  details  of  the  litigation  in  which  he  was 
involved  with  Sir  William  Eden  over  a portrait  he 
had  painted  of  the  baronet’s  wife.  This  second  book 
has  no  serious  claim  upon  the  reader.  It  records  an 
episode  in  which  the  artist  shone  with  a good  deal 
less  than  his  accustomed  brilliance,  and  it  shows  him, 
to  tell  the  truth,  in  no  very  engaging  mood.  “The 
Gentle  Art  of  Making  Enemies,”  however,  is  sure  to 
be  preserved,  for  it  contains  many  of  Whistler’s  ideas 
on  art,  and  is,  to  boot,  abundantly  amusing.  The 
ideas  signify,  first  and  last,  that  the  artist  is  an  isolated 
phenomenon,  seeking  beauty  for  its  own  sake,  and 
quite  beyond  the  understanding  of  the  Philistine,  who 
should  merely  bow  before  his  work  and  be  thankful 
for  the  privilege.  The  critic,  by  the  way,  is  always  a 
Philistine.  “There  never  was  an  artistic  period. 
There  never  was  an  Art-loving  nation.”  In  all  ages 


Whistler 


205 


the  artist  has  been  an  unexplainable  gift  of  God  to 
mankind,  — though  from  the  way  in  which  Whistler 
leaves  mankind  out  of  the  question  it  might  perhaps 
be  more  accurate  to  interpret  him  as  arguing  that  the 
artist  simply  “happens,”  and  is  his  own  sole  reason 
for  existing.  Art,  he  says,  “is  a goddess  of  dainty 
thought,  — reticent  of  habit,  abjuring  all  obtrusive- 
ness, purposing  in  no  way  to  better  others.”  Her 
leading  principle  in  the  pursuit  of  beauty  is  one  of 
selection.  “Nature  contains  the  elements,  in  color 
and  form,  of  all  pictures,  as  the  keyboard  contains 
the  notes  of  all  music.  ...  To  say  to  the  painter 
that  Nature  is  to  be  taken  as  she  is,  is  to  say  to  the 
player,  that  he  may  sit  on  the  piano.”  In  aphorisms 
like  these  Whistler  threw  light  on  his  own  work,  and 
restated  elements  in  the  broad  philosophy  of  art 
which  any  one  might  learn  from  intelligent  study  of 
the  masters,  but  which  it  was  well  to  have  expressed 
as  deftly  and  pungently  as  he  expressed  them.  The 
Bible  of  Art,  he  once  called  his  book,  in  half-mocking, 
half-proud  humor.  It  is  not  that,  but  it  is  unques- 
tionably a stimulating  volume. 

The  epigrams  it  contains,  the  steel  points  on  which 
he  impaled  his  enemies,  are  glittering  and  sometimes 
venomous,  but  though  Whistler  had  a malice  all  his 
own,  his  humor  is  so  delightful  that  even  his  victims 
must  have  enjoyed  many  of  his  thrusts.  He  had  a 
rare  gift  for  repartee.  When  he  talked  of  the  “shock 
of  surprise  that  was  Balaam’s  when  the  first  great 


206 


Whistler 


critic  proffered  his  opinion,”  and  a commentator  in 
“Vanity  Fair,”  turning  to  the  Scriptures,  gleefully 
pointed  out  that  “the  Ass  was  right,  although,  nay, 
because  he  was  an  Ass,”  it  took  him  but  a moment 
to  send  this  retort:  “I  find,  on  searching  again,  that 
historically  you  are  right.  The  fact,  doubtless,  ex- 
plains the  conviction  of  the  race  in  their  mission,  but 
I fancy  you  will  admit  that  this  is  the  only  vlss  on 
record  who  ever  did  ‘see  the  Angel  of  the  Lord!’  and 
that  we  are  past  the  age  of  Miracles.”  In  the  cata- 
logue for  the  exhibition  of  etchings  which  he  held  in 
London  in  1883,  he  created  much  mirth  by  placing 
under  the  titles  quotations  from  his  critics,  and  very 
comical  was  the  result.  One  of  the  gentlemen  cited, 
Mr.  Frederick  Wedmore,  complained  that  he  had  been 
misrepresented,  that  he  had  been  quoted  as  using  the 
word  “understand”  when  he  had  really  written 
“understate.”  Whistler  promptly  apologized.  “My 
carelessness  is  culpable,”  he  said,  “and  the  misprint 
without  excuse;  for  naturally  I have  all  along  known, 
and  the  typographer  should  have  been  duly  warned, 
that  with  Mr.  Wedmore,  as  with  his  brethren,  it  is 
always  a matter  of  understating,  and  not  at  all  one 
of  understanding.”  How  many  more  instances  of  his 
readiness  and  ruthlessness  might  be  given!  The  list 
is  endless,  for  not  only  is  “The  Gentle  Art  of  Making 
Enemies”  packed  with  sharp  sayings,  but  all  his  fife 
Whistler  barbed  his  words,  and  hundreds  of  his  witti- 
cisms have  been  widely  circulated,  either  in  print  or 


Whistler 


207 


in  the  talk  of  those  who  have  known  him.  Naturally 
his  diabolical  instinct  for  the  vitriolic  phrase  has  re- 
acted upon  the  public  estimate  of  his  character  as  a 
man,  and  in  many  quarters  the  accepted  view  is  that 
which  Degas  is  said  to  have  once  expressed  to  his  face, 
that  one  would  hardly  suspect  from  his  talk  and  de- 
meanor that  he  was  a great  artist. 

II 

In  one  of  those  brief  and  biting  disquisitions  upon 
which  Whistler  lavished  as  much  pains  as  he  gave  to 
the  painting  of  a picture,  and  in  which  he  found  as 
much  pleasure  as  he  gave  to  his  readers,  he  paid  his 
satirical  compliments  to  the  critics  who  could  not 
understand  why  he  called  his  works  “symphonies,” 
“arrangements,”  “harmonies”  and  “nocturnes.”  “I 
know,”  he  went  on,  “that  many  good  people  think 
my  nomenclature  funny  and  myself  ‘eccentric.’  Yes, 
‘eccentric’  is  the  adjective  they  find  for  me.”  That 
adjective  was  found  for  him  long  before  he  wrote  the 
words  just  quoted,  which  were  first  published  in  1878. 
He  was  considered  eccentric  when  he  was  a young 
man  in  the  studio  of  Gleyre,  and  he  was  considered  so 
down  to  the  day  of  his  death.  Yet  the  Whistler  of 
fact  was  not  altogether  like  the  Whistler  of  legend. 
If  he  was  eccentric  and  a poseur,  if  he  was  fond  of 
talking  for  effect,  and  willing,  on  occasion,  to  sacri- 
fice a friend  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  making  an 


208 


Whistler 


epigram,  there  was,  at  all  events,  a fine  consistency 
about  his  character.  He  never  pretended  to  be  any- 
thing save  what  he  was;  he  exposed  his  foibles  to  the 
world  with  the  most  charming  candor,  and  the  war 
he  waged  against  the  Philistines  in  his  youth  he  waged 
so  long  as  he  lived.  He  was  a man  who  conveyed  at 
the  outset  an  unsatisfactory  impression,  and  ended 
by  endearing  himself  to  you  as  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful of  human  beings  — when  he  did  not  happen  to 
end  by  transforming  a friend  into  an  enemy. 

The  first  time  I saw  him,  in  his  studio  in  the  Rue 
de  Rac,  he  entered  the  room  at  a mincing  gait,  carry- 
ing a straw  hat  in  one  hand  and  a bird-cage  in  the 
other.  As  he  moved  about,  talking  at  the  top  of  his 
shrill  voice,  he  seemed  anything  but  an  embodiment 
of  artistic  greatness.  Half  an  hour  later,  when  he 
had  got  rid  of  the  bird-cage  and  the  hat,  and  had  sub- 
sided into  a chair,  one’s  first  impression  wore  off,  and 
in  every  succeeding  encounter  with  him  it  receded 
further  and  further  into  obscurity.  He  has  been  ac- 
cused of  thinking,  and  talking,  eternally  of  himself, 
in  season  and  out  of  season.  Scores  of  anecdotes 
commemorate  his  vanity.  In  that  unfortunate  pas- 
sage which  Du  Maurier  introduced  into  “Trilby,” 
attacking  his  old  comrade  under  the  name  of  Joe  Sib- 
ley, he  said  of  Whistler  that  “he  was  a monotheist, 
and  had  but  one  god,”  and  continued:  “For  forty 
years  the  cosmopolite  Joe  has  been  singing  his  one 
god’s  praises  in  every  tongue  he  knows  and  every 


Whistler 


209 


country  — and  also  his  contempt  for  all  rivals  to  this 
godhead  — whether  quite  sincerely  or  not,  who  can 
say?  Men’s  motives  are  so  mixed!”  But  even  Du 
Maurier  has  to  confess,  in  this  selfsame  passage  (which, 
by  the  way,  it  will  be  recalled  that  he  had  to  with- 
draw), that  Whistler  did  this  “so  eloquently,  so  wit- 
tily, so  prettily,  that  he  almost  persuades  you  to  be 
a fellow  worshipper.”  The  truth  is  that  Whistler 
had  a way  with  him  that  made  it  impossible  for  any 
one  who  knew  him  well  to  resent  his  vanity. 

Writing  to  an  old  friend  from  Ajaccio,  where  he 
had  gone  early  in  the  winter  of  1901  to  mend  his 
health,  he  begged  his  correspondent  not  to  be  sur- 
prised at  his  address,  adding,  “It’s  all  right  — ‘Na- 
poleon and  I,’  you  know.”  During  the  occupation 
of  Paris  by  the  allied  troops,  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
lived  in  the  palace  of  Napoleon,  and  in  a note  to 
Admiral  Malcolm,  at  St.  Helena,  he  said:  “You  may 
tell  ‘Bony’  that  I find  his  apartments  at  the  Elysee 
Bourbon  very  convenient,  and  that  I hope  he  likes 
mine  at  Mr.  Balcom’s.  It  is  a droll  sequel  enough  to 
the  affairs  of  Europe  that  we  should  change  places  of 
residence.”  Could  any  one  with  a sense  of  humor 
accuse  Wellington  of  being  colossally  conceited  be- 
cause he  liked  his  little  joke?  Whistler  always  liked 
his  little  joke.  In  another  letter  to  the  same  friend, 
alluding  to  some  document  relating  to  his  own  work, 
he  remarks  that  he  should  of  course  be  much  inter- 
ested in  all  that  concerned  himself.  Speaking  of  a 


210 


Whistler 


public  official  with  whom  he  had  had  some  legal 
transactions,  he  explained  that  he  quite  understood 
how  the  person  in  question  had  been  torn  between 
care  of  Whistler  and  care  of  the  state.  One  could 
not  serve  the  republic  — and  Whistler. 

In  1897  some  one  in  Italy  sent  a circular  addressed 
to  him  at  “The  Academy,  England.”  The  post-office 
authorities  added  “Burlington  House,”  but  it  was  de- 
clined there,  and  ultimately  the  circular  reached  him 
indorsed  “Not  known  at  the  R.  A.”  He  promptly 
sent  it  to  The  Daily  Mail,  saying,  “In  these  days  of 
doubtful  frequentation,  it  is  my  rare  good  fortune  to 
be  able  to  send  you  an  unsolicited,  official  and  final 
certificate  of  character.”  As  a lifelong  friend  of  his 
once  said  to  me:  “Whistler  must  have  some  excite- 
ment in  his  daily  life,  and  if  he  cannot  meet  with  it 
in  the  natural  course  of  events  he  must  create  it  for 
himself.”  The  observation  is  just,  but,  I repeat,  one 
only  had  to  know  Whistler  in  order  to  put  this  foible 
of  his  in  its  proper  perspective.  Things  that  would 
have  sounded  grotesque  on  the  lips  of  another  man 
seemed  somehow  inoffensive  enough  when  they  came 
from  him.  Thus  in  conversation  he  resented  contra- 
diction, and  was  disposed  to  meet  it  with  a vehe- 
mence that  was  alarming,  but  I have  known  him  to  be 
inimitably  amiable  afterward,  in  atonement  for  his 
hasty  speech.  He  was  a captivating  host  at  dinner, 
consummate  in  politeness,  and  entertaining  beyond 


measure. 


Whistler 


211 


There  was  a good  deal  about  Whistler’s  personal- 
ity to  recall  the  insolent  exquisites  of  the  eighteenth 
century  on  both  sides  of  the  Channel.  He  had  their 
capacity  for  almost  brutal  cruelty  in  speech,  and  he 
had  their  deftness  and  grace  of  demeanor.  While  he 
could  inflict  a deep  wound  with  a sort  of  debonair 
indifference  to  the  sufferings  of  his  victim,  no  one 
knew  better  than  he  how  to  observe  the  punctilio  of 
an  occasion  — and  he  did  not  always  require  pomp 
and  circumstance  for  the  exercise  of  his  suavity.  He 
called  once  at  an  obscure  lodging-house  in  the  Latin 
Quarter  to  return  the  visit  of  two  friends.  One  of 
them,  a burly  Englishman,  had  come  in  only  ten 
minutes  before  from  a long  tramp  in  the  rain,  and 
sat  in  his  shirt-sleeves  with  his  feet  in  a tub  of  hot 
water  when  there  was  a tap  at  his  door.  Thinking 
it  was  his  comrade  from  across  the  landing,  he  called 
to  him  to  enter.  The  door  opened  and  in  walked 
Whistler,  to  the  consternation  of  his  host.  Did  the 
great  painter  smile,  or  show  embarrassment  or  amuse- 
ment in  any  way?  He  took  in  the  situation  at  a 
glance,  helped  himself  to  a chair,  and  in  five  min- 
utes, by  his  charm  of  manner  and  his  wit,  he  had 
driven  all  sense  of  annoyance  and  humiliation  from 
the  mind  of  the  man  he  had  so  inopportunely  sur- 
prised. 

It  was  amusing  to  hear  Whistler  declaiming  against 
the  British  in  the  South  African  War.  For  our  own 
conflict  with  the  Spaniards  he  had  nothing  but  ad- 


212 


Whistler 


miration.  I remember  his  speaking  with  enthusiasm 
of  the  dignity  of  this  country  in  the  entire  affair,  and 
especially  of  the  high  breeding  shown  by  our  officers 
in  their  attitude  toward  the  enemy.  He  was  eloquent 
over  our  treatment  of  Admiral  Cervera.  The  occa- 
sion seemed  appropriate  and  I asked  him  why  he  did 
not  come  over  to  visit  us,  telling  him  what  a welcome 
he  would  be  sure  to  receive.  Whistler  was  always  a 
man  of  singularly  upright  carriage,  but  he  seemed  to 
stand  more  erect  than  ever  as  he  stopped  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  pavement,  and,  tapping  it  with  his  stick, 
looked  me  straight  in  the  face  and  earnestly  declared, 
“I  shall  come  to  America  when  the  duty  on  works  of 
art  is  abolished!”  His  tight-fitting  coat  was  but- 
toned around  him  as  he  spoke,  the  tall  silk  hat,  with 
its  straight  brim,  which  he  always  wore,  added  to  the 
piquant  grimness  of  his  appearance,  and  as  he  gave 
me  his  terse  ultimatum,  he  seemed  a fighter,  every 
inch  of  him,  hurling  defiance  at  the  lawgivers  of  his 
native  land. 

Du  Maurier,  anxious  to  prove  that  Whistler  was 
an  egoist,  speaks  of  the  “one  god”  he  worshipped, 
and  adds,  “No  stodgy  old  master,  this  divinity,  but 
a modern  of  the  moderns.”  The  truth  is  that  even 
in  his  youth  he  frequented  the  old  masters  with  a 
grave  appreciation  not  to  be  completely  hidden  by 
his  merriment  and  his  ardor  for  all  the  fantastic  ad- 
ventures of  an  art  student  in  Paris.  “What  is  not 
worthy  of  the  Louvre  is  not  art,”  he  has  been  quoted 


Whistler 


213 


as  saying.  We  have  seen  his  judgment  on  a plate 
of  Rembrandt’s.  He  thought  that  “The  Milky  Way  ” 
of  Tintoretto,  in  the  National  Gallery,  was  the  great- 
est picture  in  the  world.  He  was  not  a devotee  of 
Turner,  but  he  yielded  to  no  man  in  appreciation  of 
certain  of  the  works  of  that  painter.  Some  of  his 
sayings,  though  with  a grain  of  truth  in  them,  have 
unmistakably  the  speciousness  of  things  uttered  for 
effect.  One  evening  in  London  he  stormed  pictu- 
resquely for  an  hour  on  what  he  regarded  as  the  limi- 
tations of  Ingres,  whom  he  persisted  in  calling  a bour- 
geois Greek.  On  another  occasion,  writing  a postal 
card  which  he  was  making  as  decorative  as  a picture 
with  his  dainty  penmanship,  he  paused  to  tell  me 
what  he  thought  of  Aubrey  Beardsley.  “We-e-11,” 
he  drawled,  “he  strikes  me  as  one  of  those  men  stand- 
ing about  in  the  market-place  because  no  man  hath 
hired  them.”  He  would  see  nothing,  even  in  the 
young  draughtsman’s  diabolical  cleverness,  to  admire. 
Later,  by  the  way,  he  is  reported  to  have  reconsid- 
ered his  views  about  Beardsley;  but  he  was  not  lavish 
of  praise  where  his  contemporaries  were  concerned. 
Though  he  could  say  pleasant  things  about  them  in 
a rather  vague  way,  calling  some  young  painter  “a 
good  fellow”  and  so  on,  words  of  explicit  admiration 
he  did  not  promiscuously  bestow.  The  truth  is,  there 
was  an  immense  amount  of  stuff  which  he  saw  in  the 
exhibitions  which  he  frankly  detested.  Yet  conver- 
sation with  him  did  not  leave  the  impression  that  he 


214 


Whistler 


was  a man  grudging  of  praise.  It  was  rather  that 
a picture  had  to  be  exceptionally  good  to  excite  his 
emotions.  One  point  is  significant.  It  was  not  the 
flashy  and  popular  painter  that  he  invited  to  share 
in  the  gatherings  for  which  his  Parisian  studio  was 
noted,  it  was  the  painter  like  Puvis  de  Chavannes, 
the  man  who  had  greatness  in  him. 

His  fame  as  an  artist  S if  not  his  exact  rank  — 
is  already  fixed,  though  he  liked  to  keep  up  the  fic- 
tion that  the  world  was  unworthy  of  him,  and 'there 
are  quaint  admirers  of  his  who  persist  in  talking,  and 
writing,  as  if,  after  all  his  efforts,  he  had  made  no 
impression  upon  his  time.  He  was  never  popular  as 
Leighton  or  Bouguereau  was  popular.  It  was  not 
until  late  in  his  career  that  he  received  high  prices 
for  his  pictures.  But  Whistler  is  the  last  artist  in 
the  world  for  us  to  consider  with  reference  to  what 
ordinarily  constitutes  popularity.  He  did  not  paint 
for  the  many;  he  painted,  if  ever  a man  did,  for  the 
few;  and  he  never  lacked  the  appreciation  which 
must  have  been  dearer  to  a man  of  his  stripe  than  any 
material  benefit.  As  far  back  as  1872,  when  he  sent 
his  portrait  of  his  mother  to  the  Royal  Academy,  and 
it  was  threatened  with  rejection,  Sir  William  Boxall 
declared  that  he  would  withdraw  from  the  council  if 
it  were  not  accepted.  He  was  destined  always  to 
have  both  material  and  artistic  success.  Why  should 
we  bewail  his  fate,  talking  of  him  as  a man  who  had 
suffered  much?  If  he  had  times  of  privation,  so  have 


Whistler 


215 


other  great  men  had  them.  Others  have  known  what 
it  has  meant  to  have  the  bailiff  at  the  door. 

On  the  whole,  Whistler’s  career  was  a singularly 
rich  and  happy  one.  He  did  the  work  he  wanted  to 
do,  and  did  it  in  his  own  way.  He  had  hosts  of  friends, 
— when  he  lost  them  it  was  usually  through  his  own 
fault;  and  he  did  not  have  long  to  wait  for  the  ap- 
proval of  his  fellow-painters.  For  a generation  his 
influence  has  been  acknowledged  in  the  studios,  and 
probably  no  artist  of  his  time  has  received  more  fre- 
quently the  sincerest  form  of  flattery.  His  etchings 
have  long  been  prized  by  connoisseurs  and  assidu- 
ously collected;  the  moment  it  was  announced  that 
he  had  taken  up  lithography,  his  sketches  in  this 
medium  were  at  once  eagerly  sought.  His  paintings 
found  owners  reasonably  soon  enough,  as  the  experi- 
ence of  almost  any  artist  of  genius  goes,  and  to-day 
many  of  the  best  of  them  are  where  all  the  world 
may  see  them.  His  two  finest  portraits  hang,  as  I have 
noted,  in  the  Luxembourg  and  in  the  Public  Gallery 
at  Glasgow  respectively.  The  “Duret”  and  the  full- 
length  of  “Irving  as  Philip”  are  in  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  in  New  York;  the  “Sarasate”  is  at  Pitts- 
burg; the  Boston  Museum  of  Fine  Arts  has  his 
“Blacksmith”  and  one  or  two  other  things,  and  else- 
where in  America  numbers  of  his  pictures  may  be 
found  in  public  and  private  galleries.  The  critics  he 
contemned  may  in  some  cases,  at  the  outset,  have 
undervalued  him.  But  there  has  never  been  anything 


21 6 


Whistler 


visible  in  the  public  prints  even  remotely  resembling 
the  general  Ignorance  of  Ms  art,  and  the  foolish  dis- 
taste for  it,  which  he  liked  to  attribute  to  the  critics, 
pretending  that  they  were  arrayed  in  a conspiracy  of 
dulness  and  fatuity  against  him.  He  was  eulogized 
everywhere  when  he  died.  He  had  been  eulogized 
for  years  before  the  end  came. 

He  passed  from  the  scene  full  of  years  and  honors, 
secure  of  the  applause  of  his  peers  and  of  that  of  a 
much  larger  section  of  the  multitude  than,  with  his 
strange  temperament,  it  would  have  suited  him  to 
admit.  He  leaves  no  school,  but  that  is  natural 
enough.  His  art  is  inimitable.  He  could  help  greatly 
to  purify  the  taste  of  his  time,  he  could  give  to  painters, 
and  to  laymen  too,  some  valuable  hints  on  color,  and 
he  made  the  “arrangement”  in  portraiture  popular. 
But  his  influence,  though  wide,  as  I have  said,  has 
been  more  a corrective  than  a constructive  force. 
Imitation  of  him  has  led  to  nothing  more  than  — - 
imitation.  His  is  not  the  kind  of  art  that,  imposing 
itself  upon  men,  starts  an  evolutionary  movement. 
He  meant  it  to  exist  in  and  for  itself  alone,  and  so 
it  does,  like  some  rare  orchid  that  has  no  prototype 
and  can  have  no  successor. 


Sargent 


IX 


SARGENT 

Sargent’s  princely  rank  in  modern  painting  was 
conferred  upon  him  at  his  birth.  In  his  career,  which 
already  has  entered  into  the  history  of  art  as  some- 
thing singular  and  important,  every  condition  has 
been  favorable.  All  things,  from  the  start,  conspired 
to  make  him  a painter,  and  even  in  his  student  days 
he  possessed  the  instinctive  authority  over  his  brushes 
which,  in  an  age  of  technicians,  is  nevertheless  rare. 
The  point  means  more  than  is  immediately  obvi- 
ous. Scores  of  modern  painters  paint  so  well  that  in 
any  exhibition,  until  the  self-confessed  amateurs  are 
reached,  a certain  workmanlike  standard  is  taken  as 
a matter  of  course.  But  look  beneath  the  surface 
in  any  collection  of  contemporary  pictures,  and  a sur- 
prising number  of  celebrated  names  are  found  to  spell 
one  of  two  things  — mechanism  or  effort.  Sargent’s 
name  does  not  spell  either.  Bred  in  the  studio  of  a 
Parisian  of  the  Parisians,  he  has  never  adopted  any 
of  the  hollow  tricks  of  the  Salonnier,  who  reduces  exe- 
cution to  a science,  and  calls  it  art;  and,  paradox- 
ically, while  “the  way  in  which  he  does  it”  is  a mat- 

219 


220 


Sargent 


ter  of  perpetual  interest  to  his  critics,  he  offers  in  his 
work  the  proof  of  Mr.  Whistler’s  maxim,  that  “a 
picture  is  finished  when  all  trace  of  the  means  used 
to  bring  about  the  end  has  disappeared.” 

I am  aware  of  the  danger  in  approaching  Sargent 
in  this  cheerful  mood.  For  some  years  he  tyran- 
nized over  the  Royal  Academy  in  a way  well  calcu- 
lated to  make  a great  many  excellent  mediocrities 
hate  the  sight  of  his  productions.  It  has  been  a case 
of  Eclipse  first,  and  the  rest  nowhere.  One  show  in 
particular  at  Burlington  House  — it  was,  I think,  in 
1900  — I vividly  remember.  The  vast  wall  space 
was,  as  usual,  more  than  well  covered.  I scrutinized 
every  inch  of  it  with  care,  and  an  open  mind.  Liter- 
ally, every  canvas  that  had  anything  profitable  to 
say  for  itself  was  a Sargent.  His  peers  have  accepted 
the  situation  with  amiability.  But  a mild  reaction 
has  recently  set  in,  and  as  Sargent  is  not  able,  any 
more  than  any  other  man,  to  strike  twelve  every  time 
he  paints  a picture,  he  has  been  terribly  taken  to 
task  for  his  failures;  divers  critics  have  been  finding 
out  that  he  hasn’t  really  any  genius  at  all,  but  is 
simply  one  more  “ talent  ” — of  a rather  unusual  order, 
to  be  sure,  but  still  only  a talent.  For  my  own  part, 
the  shock  of  one  of  his  failures  has  always  been  espe- 
cially distressing;  it  has  come  with  a weight  in  pro- 
portion to  its  source.  But  why  in  the  world  it  should 
set  any  one  to  a solemn  shaking  of  the  head  over  the 
painter  of  the  “ Carmencita,”  or  the  “Miss  Beatrice 


Sargent 


221 


Goelet,”  or  the  “Asher  Wertheimer,”  it  is  difficult 
to  perceive.  Most  of  the  jeremiads  intoned  over 
him,  apropos  of  an  unsuccessful  portrait,  actually 
amount  to  this : that  he  does  not  paint  like  somebody 
else,  like  Titian,  or  Rembrandt,  or  Gainsborough,  or 
Degas.  Better  a hundred  failures  than  the  one  most 
humiliating  of  all  — the  failure  to  paint  like  himself. 

He  has  been  his  own  inspiration  from  the  outset, 
a fact  doubled  in  interest  when  his  early  environ- 
ment is  considered.  He  was  born  in  Florence  (in 
1856),  and  I suppose  the  future  historian  will  accord- 
ingly look  for  traces  of  Italian  art  in  his  development. 
They  lurk,  presumably,  in  the  copies  of  Venetian  por- 
traits which  he  is  said  to  have  made,  and,  doubtless, 
in  boyish  sketch-books  thus  far  hidden  from  the  pub- 
lic. Certainly,  too,  the  scenes  of  his  youth  must  be 
counted  among  those  favorable  conditions  to  which 
allusion  has  been  made  above.  No  one  with  the  ar- 
tistic temperament  could  live,  at  the  most  impres- 
sionable of  all  ages,  among  the  masterpieces  of  the 
Southern  schools,  and  not  experience  a fertilization 
of  his  nature,  a purification  of  his  taste.  But  what- 
soever he  may  have  derived,  in  the  way  of  stimulus 
or  suggestion,  from  the  linear  charm  of  the  Tuscan 
Primitives,  the  plastic  power  of  the  North  Italians, 
or  the  sensuous  beauty  of  the  Venetians,  he  has  kept 
to  himself.  When  the  time  for  his  apprenticeship  ar- 
rived he  gravitated  to  Paris  as  naturally  and,  from  all 
we  know  to  the  contrary,  as  little  encumbered  with 


222 


Sargent 


prejudice,  as  any  American  leaving  New  York  or  Bos- 
ton for  the  artistic  workshop  of  the  world.  He  found 
there  the  one  teacher,  as  it  seems  to  me,  best  fitted 
to  his  own  aptitudes  — Carolus-Duran.  Not  the 
Carolus-Duran  of  that  specious  virtuosity  which  of 
late  years  has  glittered  in  the  Salon  with  the  gaudy 
pride  of  fashionable  vulgarity  itself,  but  the  Carolus- 
Duran  of  the  “Croizette,”  the  “Sabine,”  and  other 
memorable  canvases  of  the  seventies  and  thereabouts. 
These  were  among  the  first  fruits  of  a reorganized 
state  of  affairs,  and,  it  may  be  remarked  in  passing, 
Sargent  is  inconceivable  save  as  a follower  of  the 
new,  essentially  modern  regime. 

It  is  interesting  to  consider  the  situation  in  Paris 
as  he  confronted  it  on  his  arrival  twenty  or  twenty- 
five  years  ago.  By  that  time  the  Barbizon  painters 
had  begun  to  reap  the  rewards  of  their  long  struggle 
with  adversity,  and  impressionism  had  made  some 
of  its  most  violent  incursions  into  the  enemy’s  coun- 
try. But  the  enemy  was  not  by  any  means  to  be 
ejected  in  a day  from  his  Academic  citadel,  and,  more- 
over, to  the  young  painter  then  feeling  his  way,  the 
official  exhibitions  presented  appeals  which  it  would 
have  required  some  courage  and  more  stupidity  for 
him  to  disdain.  The  truth  is  that  there  was  a good 
deal  going  on  in  the  Paris  of  Sargent’s  salad  days 
which  did  not  need  a novel  label  to  recommend  it. 
Academic  ideals  were  waning,  but  not  all  the  Acad- 
emicians, or  all  their  fellow-believers  in  the  artistic 


Sargent 


223 


principles  handed  down  by  the  fathers,  were  com- 
mitted to  a soulless  routine.  If  Cabanel  was  paint- 
ing his  correct  and  cold  presentments  of  the  grande 
dame  of  his  day,  Bonnat  was  modelling,  with  a kind 
of  brutal  energy,  portrait  after  portrait  of  the  states- 
man, the  poet,  and  the  soldier,  and  making  them  any- 
thing but  cold.  Degas  himself,  creating  a new  school, 
was  not  unmindful  of  an  old  one.  He  emulated,  in 
his  independent  way,  the  classicist  he  adored  — In- 
gres. There  appeared  in  a New  York  gallery  not  long 
ago  a souvenir  of  Degas  in  this  backward-glancing 
mood  of  his,  a portrait  of  a woman,  which  was  a little 
sermon  in  itself  against  always  looking  for  the  vir- 
tues of  change  where  change  is  most  manifest.  In 
some  of  its  aspects  this  painting  might  pass  for  a 
page  from  the  ante-impressionistic  era.  It  has  in  it 
the  sobriety  and  the  rectitude  of  Ingres  himself,  and 
draws  near  to  the  “finish,”  while  it  assuredly  possesses 
the  solidity,  characteristic  of  many  an  Academician. 
The  note  in  the  thing,  of  an  aim  new  at  that  time, 
lies  altogether  in  the  quality  of  its  execution,  in  the 
personal  treatment  of  a scheme  entirely  impersonal, 
in  beauty  of  modelling  and  tone. 

It  is  the  fashion  to  enhance  applause  of  an  inno- 
vator by  contempt  of  the  men  he  has  risen  to  sup- 
plant. As  a matter  of  fact  there  were  capable  painters 
before  Manet,  and  contemporary  with  him,  who  had 
no  impulse  toward  his  subversive  tendencies,  and  the 
formation  of  Sargent’s  style  is  the  more  interesting 


224 


Sargent 


to  observe  if  we  see  it  going  on,  not  amid  the  har- 
monious teachings  of  a single  school,  but  in  a time 
of  many  movements  and  in  one  of  transition  into  the 
bargain.  The  choice  of  a definite  line  of  action  at 
such  a time  involves  the  use  of  so  much  the  more 
judgment  and  individuality.  One  point  it  is  impor- 
tant to  remember.  Sargent,  studying  under  the  wing 
of  Carolus-Duran,  was  in  an  atmosphere  sympathetic 
to  new  ideas,  but  not  at  all  inhospitable  to  old  ones. 
While  he  emerged  from  his  master’s  studio  a mod- 
ern in  the  best  sense  of  the  term,  it  was  with  a vein 
of  conservatism  in  him  which  has  never  disappeared. 
Of  how  many  modern  painters,  endowed,  as  he  has 
been,  with  superabundant  technical  brilliance,  could 
it  be  said  that  they  have  never  exceeded  a certain 
limit  of  audacity?  I know  of  no  canvas  of  his  which 
could  fairly  be  called  sensational.  One  of  the  least 
conventional  of  painters,  his  art  nevertheless  remains 
adjusted  to  the  tone  and  movement  of  the  world  in 
which  he  lives  — - surely  a fine  example  of  genius  ex- 
pressing its  age.  Like  Degas,  in  the  portrait  afore- 
said, he  has  poured  new  wine  into  an  old  bottle  with- 
out breaking  the  bottle. 

Thus  far  I have  taken  it  for  granted  that  it  is  of 
Sargent  the  portrait-painter  we  are  speaking,  yet  his 
predestination  to  that  role,  which  has  since  been  made 
unmistakable,  is  not  clear  in  the  opening  incidents  of 
his  career.  He  painted  portraits,  but  he  painted  other 
more  casual  things,  notably  some  Spanish  and  Vene- 


Sargent 


225 


tian  subjects  out  of  which  he  got  all  the  charm  of 
Southern  picturesqueness,  without  any  of  its  facti- 
tious and  theatrical  elements.  I say  “casual”  advi- 
sedly, for  some  of  the  most  characteristic  of  the  earlier 
works  I have  in  mind  are,  if  not  exactly  unstudied,  at 
all  events  chiefly  admirable  for  the  spontaneity  and 
almost  artless  vivacity  with  which  they  record  im- 
pressions of  things  seen.  One  of  them  is  “A  Street 
in  Venice,”  in  which  two  cloaked  idlers  watch  a girl 
who  passes  them,  her  shawl  drawn  close  about  her, 
her  face  toward  the  spectator.  “Venetian  Bead 
Stringers,”  which  dates  apparently  from  the  same 
period,  is  a shadowy  interior  with  three  figures.  It 
is  a long  time  since  I have  seen  either  of  these  paint- 
ings, but  I retain  as  clearly  as  though  I had  seen  them 
yesterday,  a sense  of  the  vitality  in  them;  of  their 
charm  as  of  motives  taken  from  common  life  and 
lifted  at  once  out  of  the  commonplace.  The  figures 
are  so  effectively  placed,  the  light  and  shade  playing 
about  them  are  so  skilfully  directed,  the  touch  is  so 
fresh  and  so  sure.  Here  is,  in  short,  what  Sargent, 
as  the  painter  of  such  subjects,  always  gives  us  — a 
sane  and  winning  naturalism. 

Sometimes  it  has  taken  a delicately  romantic  tone. 
In  a volume  of  “Spanish  and  Italian  Folk-Songs,” 
published  by  Miss  Alma  Strettell  in  1887,  six  of  the 
twelve  illustrations  are  by  Sargent.  The  frontispiece 
is  a sketch  of  a gypsy  dance,  with  figures  thrust  forth 
from,  or  almost  buried  in,  mysterious  gloom.  One 


226 


Sargent 


of  the  plates  in  the  body  of  the  book  is  of  a quaint 
image  of  the  Madonna  such  as  Southern  peasants 
worship.  In  a second  a woman  draws  back  in  ter- 
ror from  the  mystic  message  of  the  cards  whose  power 
she  has  invoked ; in  a third  a dancer,  with  superb  ges- 
ture, is  drawn  with  wonderful  feeling  for  rhythmic 
motion;  the  next  subject  is  a dainty  garden  scene, 
and  the  last  is  a Crucifixion.  In  all  the  drawings  there 
is  an  emotion  not  of  the  surface,  a hint  that  the  painter 
has  caught  the  strain  of  macabre  poetry  in  his  material. 
But  even  in  these  one  cannot  but  feel  that  his  salient 
faculty  is  that  of  the  artist  who  labors  most  fruitfully 
“with  his  eye  on  the  object,”  not  with  his  imagina- 
tion hovering  around  its  inner  secrets.  How  secure 
he  has  ever  been  from  drifting,  through  this  purely 
visual  preoccupation,  into  the  cruder  naturalism  of 
the  French  school  — the  influence  of  which  was  in 
the  air  in  his  younger  days  — is  shown,  even  more 
than  in  these  fugitive  smaller  essays,  by  the  large 
picture  of  a Spanish  dance,  “El  Jaleo,”  which  he  sent 
to  the  Salon  of  1882  and  which  was  for  some  years 
lent  to  the  Fine  Arts  Museum  of  Boston  by  the  gen- 
tleman in  that  city  to  whom  it  belongs. 

I can  imagine  Sargent  contemplating  an  inroad 
upon  the  Salon,  remembering  the  conditions  imposed 
by  that  storm-tossed  arena  upon  the  contributor  who 
does  not  want  to  be  swamped,  and  speculating  as  to 
whether  this  painting  of  his,  in  subject,  scale,  and 
treatment,  would  “do.”  Decidedly  it  would  do. 


Sargent 


22  7 


“El  Jaleo”  is  the  kind  of  picture  that  would  hold  its 
own  amid  a host  of  machines.  But  I cannot  imagine 
Sargent  allowing  anything  of  the  machine  to  creep 
into  it.  He  must  know  the  language  of  the  Parisian 
studios,  but  he  does  not  speak  it  in  his  work.  Per- 
haps it  is  his  Florentine  upbringing,  steadying  his 
taste;  perhaps  it  is  his  effortless  originality.  What- 
ever the  safeguard,  he  is  as  free  from  the  cliche  — 
and  from  vulgarity  — in  “El  Jaleo”  as  he  is,  say,  in 
his  portrait  of  “Miss  Beatrice  Goelet,”  a painting  in 
which  the  innocent  sweetness  of  childhood  unfolds 
itself  like  a flower.  “El  Jaleo,”  though  it  was  in  the 
Salon,  was  not  of  it.  Like  the  Venetian  studies  just 
cited,  it  is  a piece  of  naturalistic  painting;  every  in- 
gredient of  visible  passion,  grace,  and  Spanish  glamour 
which  belongs  to  the  famous  dance,  as  I have  seen  it 
again  and  again  in  Seville  and  Madrid,  is  reflected  as 
in  a mirror;  but  there  is  no  tincture  of  the  photo- 
graph there.  Merely  as  a realistic  record  of  facts  this 
makes  the  numerous  studies  of  the  same  theme  which 
have  passed  through  the  Salon,  look  forced  and 
garish,  its  realism  being  of  the  higher  order.  Put  its 
veracity  aside  and  you  still  have  what  is,  after  all, 
the  thing  most  worth  having  in  the  circumstances,  — 
a beautiful  work  of  art,  beautiful  in  its  rich  darks,  its 
luminous  yet  restrained  yellows,  its  grouping  of  some 
eight  or  ten  figures  in  a design  which  seems  simplicity 
itself  — until  you  take  the  trouble  to  analyze  the 
balance  of  its  movement,  and  the  subtle  co-ordination 


228 


Sargent 


of  its  values.  What  holds  one,  moreover,  in  this  pro- 
duction of  a young  man  still  in  his  twenties,  is  its 
astonishing  aplomb;  the  ease  and  keen  unhackneyed 
“ attack”  with  which  the  thing  is  done,  proclaim  a 
painter  who  has  “arrived”  and  with  whom  modern 
art  will  henceforth  have  to  reckon.  It  has  been  reck- 
oning with  him  ever  since,  now  breathless  with  admi- 
ration, now  full  of  impatience  and  indignation  over 
some  ill-considered  piece  of  work,  but  never  indifferent. 

One  way  of  emphasizing  this  point  is  to  face  the 
fact  that  for  years  Sargent  sent  scarcely  anything  save 
portraits  to  the  exhibitions.  A great  portrait  is  one 
of  the  greatest  things  in  the  world,  but  it  is  not,  to-day, 
the  portrait-painter  of  whom  one  would  ordinarily 
hear  most.  The  subject-picture  has  a way  of  taking 
the  centre  of  the  stage,  and  for  years  after  “El  Jaleo” 
was  painted,  Sargent  did  nothing  save  the  charming 
“Carnation,  Lily,  Lily,  Rose,”  to  follow  up  the  suc- 
cess of  that  work.  His  decorations  for  the  Boston 
Public  Library  occupy  a place  apart  in  his  activity, 
and  form  in  no  sense  a sequence  to  his  early  triumph. 
Possibly  we  have  lost  by  his  abstention,  though  it 
may  be  that  he  gives  us  all  that  it  is  really  delightful 
to  have,  outside  of  his  portraiture,  in  such  studies 
and  sketches  as  those  with  which  he  amuses  himself 
when  on  his  travels,  and  in  the  intervals  of  painting 
portraits  at  home.  At  any  rate,  a good  portrait  by 
him  has  an  interest  quite  as  potent  as  that  of  a sub- 
ject-picture. This,  which  is  so  true  of  him  to-day,  has 


Sargent 


229 


never  been  truer  than  it  was  when  he  was  only  near- 
ing the  threshold  of  his  present  extraordinary  vogue. 
I might  cite  in  evidence  that  noted  portrait  which  he 
painted,  in  1879,  of  his  master,  in  worthy  requital  of 
all  that  Carolus-Duran  had  done  in  teaching  him  the 
rudiments  of  his  profession.  But  an  apter  illustra- 
tion is  provided  by  the  full-length  he  made  of  a famous 
Parisian  beauty,  Madame  Gautreau.  That  inspiring 
personality  we  may  see  also  in  a brilliant  half-length 
by  Courtois,  and  it  is  most  instructive  to  compare  the 
two.  The  Frenchman’s  work  is  a polished  piece  of 
draughtsmanship.  He  has  handled  his  motive  some- 
what in  the  vein  of  an  old  Florentine  or  Milanese 
profile,  and  has  achieved  a pure  distinction  in  the 
contour,  a delicacy  in  the  tone,  by  virtue  of  which 
he  has  carried  the  panel  through  one  exhibition  after 
another,  undiminished  in  its  prestige.  Sargent’s 
much  larger  portrait,  which  he  sent  to  the  Salon  two 
years  after  “El  Jaleo,”  is  inferior  to  it  in  linear  aus- 
terity, and  in  atmosphere,  as  of  something  sculptur- 
esque and  fragile.  But  in  everything  else  it  is  a much 
more  striking  performance.  I need  not  pause  upon 
the  technique,  save  to  note  that  it  has  a good  deal  of 
the  characteristic  Sargent  effulgence,  and  an  elastic- 
ity and  breadth  to  which  Courtois  could  lay  no  claim. 
What  is  important  is  the  conception,  which  is  as  mod- 
ern and  personal  as  the  other  is  neo-Italian  and  aca- 
demic; and  in  addition  there  is  the  masterful  accent 
of  the  man  born  to  paint  portraits,  born  to  draw  from 


230 


Sargent 


each  of  his  sitters  the  one  unforgettable  and  vital 
impression  which  is  waiting  for  the  artist. 

People  complain  that  Sargent  violates  the  secret 
recesses  of  human  vanity,  and  brings  hidden,  because 
unlovely,  traits  out  into  the  light  of  day;  that  his 
candor  with  the  brush  is  startling,  to  say  the  least, 
and  sometimes  even  perilous.  He  is  accused  not 
simply  of  painting  his  sitter,  “wart  and  all,”  but  of 
exaggerating  the  physical  or  moral  disfigurement.  If 
this  is  true  there  is  something  humorous  in  the  spec- 
tacle, which  is  constantly  being  presented,  of  men 
and  women  running  the  risk.  But  the  risk  is  not  so 
great  as  it  seems.  Take  the  portrait  of  Madame 
Gautreau.  It  is  no  encroachment  upon  the  privacy 
of  that  lady  to  consider  both  portraits  of  her  with 
brief  reference  to  their  original,  and  to  observe  that 
while  Courtois  gives  us  an  enchanting  variation  on 
his  theme,  Sargent’s  canvas  vibrates  with  the  exqui- 
site quality  of  the  theme  itself,  in  all  its  integrity. 
That  is  his  great  gift.  He  does  not  betray  his  sitter. 
He  takes  his  or  her  essential  traits  and  makes  them 
the  stuff  of  a kind  of  pictorial  demonstration,  inter- 
esting us  in  them  profoundly.  Few  of  his  sitters 
seem,  as  we  see  them  on  the  canvas,  to  have  been 
passive  in  his  hands.  The  electric  currents  of  a duel 
are  in  the  air.  Character  has  thrown  down  its  chal- 
lenge, the  painter  has  taken  it  up,  and  the  result  is 
a work  in  which  character  is  fused  with  design,  playing 
its  part  in  the  artistic  unit  as  powerfully,  and  almost 


Sargent 


231 


as  vividly,  as  any  one  of  the  tangible  facts  of  the  por- 
trait. Where  Madame  Gautreau  has  received  a hap- 
pier commemoration  at  Sargent’s  hands  than  at  those 
of  Courtois,  has  been  in  the  greater  extent  to  which 
the  American  has  allowed  her  to  co-operate,  as  it 
were,  with  him.  Her  style,  her  atmosphere,  the  last, 
most  evanescent  perfume  of  her  individuality,  help 
enormously  to  make  this  portrait  appealing  not  simply 
as  a portrait,  but  as  a painting.  I cannot  see  in  this 
any  of  the  “risk”  to  which  I have  just  referred. 
Complaint  is  apt  to  come,  I fear,  from  those  who 
cannot  understand  that  the  business  of  the  portrait- 
painter  is  to  tell  the  truth.  That  the  truth  happens 
to  strike  Sargent  as  a factor  in  portraiture  of  no  less 
constructive  importance  than  form  or  color  is  simply 
one  of  the  proofs  of  his  adequacy. 

There  is  a good  story  of  the  late  Coventry  Pat- 
more and  the  portrait  of  him  by  Sargent  which  now 
hangs  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery.  Mr.  Basil 
Champneys,  in  his  biography  of  the  poet,  relates  that 
when  the  work  was  finished  and  he  went  down  to 
Lymington  to  see  what  the  original  declared  to  be 
“the  best  portrait  which  Sargent,  or  probably  any 
other  painter,  had  ever  painted,”  it  struck  him  as 
inclining  toward  caricature.  Patmore  asked  for  his 
opinion.  “I  told  him,”  says  Mr.  Champneys,  “that 
if  the  picture  had  been  extended  downwards  there 
must  have  appeared  the  handle  of  a whip,  and  that 
he  would  then  have  been  fully  revealed  as  a sort  of 


232 


Sargent 


Southern  planter  on  the  point  of  thrashing  his  slaves 
and  exclaiming,  ‘You  damned  niggers!”’  Patmore 
was  pleased.  “He  always  delighted  in  any  tribute 
to  his  grasp  of  active  life,  and  prided  himself  on  his 
power  of  dealing  blows  to  the  adversary.”  Sargent 
had  missed  the  aspect  of  “seer,”  which  in  later  years 
had  alone  seemed  to  Mr.  Champneys  characteristic 
of  his  friend.  Is  posterity  the  loser?  Will  it  receive 
a false  impression  of  Patmore?  I doubt  it. 

In  the  light  of  the  long  procession  of  portraits  which 
he  has  put  to  his  credit,  it  seems  to  me  that  if  there  is 
a living  painter  in  whose  interpretations  of  character 
confidence  can  be  placed,  it  is  Sargent.  His  range  is 
apparently  unlimited.  He  has  painted  Carmencita 
in  all  the  pomp  and  insolence  of  her  mundane  beauty; 
and  not  only  in  the  “Miss  Beatrice  Goelet,”  but  in 
the  “Hon.  Laura  Lister,”  the  “Homer  St.  Gaudens,” 
the  “Master  Goodrich,”  and  “The  Boit  Children,” 
he  has  treated  adolescence  with  the  most  searching 
understanding.  He  has  painted  men  and  women  in 
their  prime  and  in  their  old  age,  and  in  whatever 
walk  of  life  he  has  found  them,  he  has  apprehended 
them  with  the  “seeing  eye”  that  is  half  the  battle. 
Actors,  actresses,  lawyers,  architects,  soldiers,  painters, 
statesmen,  poets,  noblemen,  commoners,  men  of  af- 
fairs, and  nobodies,  all  these  has  he  painted  and 
painted  well,  and,  besides,  he  has  portrayed  the 
woman  of  fashion,  in  her  infinite  variety,  with  in- 
comparable elegance  and  penetration. 


Sargent 


233 


When  the  historic  representative  exhibition  of  his 
works  was  given  in  Boston  some  years  ago,  I remem- 
ber with  what  human  interest  the  hall  seemed  filled. 
It  was  as  though  one  were  witnessing  a great  levee 
or  other  ceremonial,  crowded  with  beautiful  and  dis- 
tinguished personalities,  and  murmurous  with  living 
voices.  Nowhere  in  that  assemblage  did  the  note 
seem  forced.  It  was  an  irresistible  play  upon  words 
in  which  Mr.  Whistler  indulged  when  he  looked  at 
the  “Carnation,  Lily,  Lily,  Rose,”  and  said,  “Darna- 
tion  Silly,  Silly  Pose,”  but  it  was  not  criticism.  It  is 
worth  noticing  that  it  is  not  in  his  portraits  of  men,  but 
in  his  portraits  of  women,  who  illustrate  far  more  his- 
trionically the  nervous  tension  of  the  age,  that  Sargent 
has  painted  his  most  unconventional  compositions. 
And  when  his  subject  has  permitted  him  to  exchange 
nervousness  for  repose,  with  what  felicity  he  has  seized 
his  opportunity!  There  is  not  in  modern  portraiture 
a more  satisfactory  study  in  dignity  and  noble  state- 
liness than  his  “Mrs.  Marquand.”  On  the  other 
hand,  the  quality  which  is  so  well  expressed  in  this 
canvas,  while  evidently  accessible  to  Sargent  when 
he  is  painting  a single  figure,  escapes  him  on  some 
other  occasions  when  his  task  is  more  complicated. 
He  could  repeat  the  quiet  pose  of  the  “Mrs.  Mar- 
quand” in  his  portrait  of  Lady  Agnew,  one  of  the 
most  refined  works  he  has  ever  painted,  but  in  his 
group  portraits,  where  poise  is  most  needed,  it  is 
markedly  absent  — save  in  one  monumental  instance, 


234 


Sargent 


to  be  traversed  below.  Sometimes  it  hardly  matters. 
The  “Mrs.  Carl  Meyer  and  Children,”  for  example, 
is  so  captivating  in  its  Gallic  lightness  of  feeling, 
so  dazzling  in  its  technique,  that  it  were  futile  to 
quarrel  with  its  composition  — an  application  to  por- 
traiture of  the  principle  of  spontaneity  which  we  have 
seen  in  action  in  his  early  Venetian  sketches.  “The 
Misses  Vickers,”  which  was  painted  in  the  middle 
eighties,  some  ten  or  twelve  years  before  the  “Mrs. 
Carl  Meyer,”  also  justifies  itself  through  the  sheer 
charm  of  the  effect  which  the  painter  has  secured  from 
his  lawless  arrangement  of  forms.  But  what  of  “The 
Three  Graces,”  as  by  common  consent  it  was  called, 
the  big  canvas  (representing  Lady  Elcho,  Mrs.  Ten- 
nant, and  Mrs.  Adeane,  the  daughters  of  Mrs.  Wynd- 
ham)  which  created  a furore  in  the  Academy?  The 
uneasy  balance  of  the  thing  was,  in  my  opinion,  only 
thrown  into  clearer  relief  by  the  presence  of  Watts’s 
portrait  of  Mrs.  Wyndham  in  the  background,  where 
Sargent  had  dimly  indicated  that  fine  souvenir  of 
a modern  exemplar  of  the  grand  manner.  What  of 
the  other  large  group  which  he  executed  later,  “The 
Misses  Hunter”? 

They  are  interesting  paintings.  Sargent  could  not 
be  dull  if  he  tried.  But  they  do  not  seem,  like  his 
single  portraits,  or  even  like  one  of  his  double  por- 
traits, “The  Daughters  of  Asher  Wertheimer,”  to  be 
— there  is  no  other  word  — inevitable.  There  is 
work  in  them  finer  than  anything  any  of  his  contem- 


Sargent 


235 


poraries  could  do  — and  there  is  the  sense  of  artifice 
and  effort,  of  lines  teased  into  relations  to  one  an- 
other which,  when  he  is  himself,  Sargent  never  dis- 
closes. The  trouble,  I take  it,  is  that  he  is  groping 
through  the  intricacies  of  a formula,  a thing  foreign 
to  his  genius,  and,  what  is  more,  foreign  to  his  time. 
The  only  artists  who  have  ever  succeeded  in  doing 
the  sort  of  thing  Sargent  has  latterly  been  trying  to 
do  in  these  groups  of  his,  have  been  painters  like 
Mignard,  Rigaud,  Largilliere,  and  the  rest,  in  France, 
or  like  Sir  Joshua,  Gainsborough,  and  their  school  in 
England  — men  who  have  been  born  to  a tradition 
half  social  and  half  artistic,  and  have  therefore  moved 
within  its  boundaries  with  unconscious  ease.  In  his 
endeavor  to  reconcile  the  mode  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury with  the  spirit  of  the  twentieth,  Sargent  has 
"gone  against  nature,”  and,  for  once,  his  consum- 
mate ability  has  been  set  at  naught.  In  other  words, 
in  these  groups  he  is  not  himself;  and  in  being  him- 
self, as  cannot  be  too  often  reiterated,  resides  a great 
part  of  his  strength. 

He  is  himself  in  his  reading  of  character,  in  his 
design,  and  in  his  style.  To  say  this  is  not  to  forget 
his  indebtedness,  where  style  is  concerned,  to  other 
painters,  even  to  Carolus-Duran.  I think  there  is 
something  of  Carolus-Duran  in  his  mere  cleverness, 
which,  like  so  much  that  is  fluent  and  self-possessed 
in  modern  craftsmanship,  could  have  been  developed 
in  Paris  and  nowhere  else.  The  broad,  slashing 


236 


Sargent 


stroke  of  Hals  has  taught  him  something,  it  is  fair 
to  assume,  and  the  influence  of  Velasquez  in  his 
work  is  sufficiently  obvious.  Yet  there  is  not  in 
all  his  painting  the  ghost  of  what  it  would  be 
reasonable  to  call  an  imitative  passage.  The  rapid- 
ity and  bravura  of  Hals  he  recalls  often  enough, 
but  never  the  Dutchman’s  blunt  simplicity.  The 
temperament  of  the  racy  old  master  and  that  of  the 
cosmopolitan  modem  are  poles  apart.  He  revives 
sometimes,  in  terms  of  brushwork,  the  tradition  of 
Velasquez,  but  it  is  not  by  brushwork  alone  that  style 
is  made;  with  the  painter  of  “Las  Meninas”  and  “Las 
Hilanderas,”  color  is  peculiarly  important,  and  be- 
tween color  as  he  understood  it,  and  Sargent’s  color, 
there  is  no  connecting  link.  One  is  all  limpidity  and 
sober  charm,  even  when  it  is  in  its  higher  keys.  The 
other  is  sharp,  vibrating,  and,  though  always  in  good 
taste,  never  deep  or  tender.  To  see  the  point  in  a 
nutshell,  compare  the  plangent  brilliance  of  the  cos- 
tume in  the  portrait  of  Carmencita  with  the  melting, 
bloomlike  beauty  of  a dress  worn  by  one  of  the  In- 
fantas of  the  Prado.  The  clear  timbre  of  the  older 
colorists,  resonant  and  haunting,  has  always  struck 
me  as  lying  outside  the  scope  of  Sargent’s  art,  if  not, 
perhaps,  incompatible  with  so  militant  and  pyrotech- 
nical  a phenomenon.  The  differences  between  him 
and  his  illustrious  predecessors  go  to  the  very  root 
of  the  matter.  He  is  no  more  a modern  Hals  or 
Velasquez  than  he  is  a modern  Rembrandt  or  Botti- 


Sargent 


23  7 


celli,  for  he  looks  at  life  and  art  from  a totally 
different  point  of  view;  not  simply,  or  grandly,  or 
tragically,  or  imaginatively,  but  with  the  detached, 
intellectual  curiosity  of  a man  of  the  world.  He  paints 
with  a dexterity  that  is  of  the  same  modem,  eclectic, 
and  yet  intensely  individualized  origin  as  his  mental 
attitude.  Of  course  he  has  profited  by  the  great 
exemplars  of  technique.  As  a great  technician  he 
could  not  have  done  anything  else. 

He  has  his  place  in  the  hierarchy,  and  it  is  the 
place  of  a portrait-painter,  for  all  that  his  pictures 
have  such  rare  merit.  To  the  latter  he  has  given,  of 
late,  a large  proportion  of  his  energy,  being  weary, 
it  is  said,  of  portraiture.  In  the  museums  of  Boston 
and  Brooklyn  there  are  large  collections  of  his  water- 
colors,  showing  with  what  maestria  he  has  employed 
one  of  the  lightest  and  most  difficult  of  mediums; 
and  it  is  common  nowadays,  too,  for  him  to  produce 
in  oils  such  overwhelmingly  brilliant  paintings  as  the 
forest  study  called  “The  Hermit”  in  the  Metropoli- 
tan Museum.  His  authority,  indeed,  in  almost  any 
field,  would  seem  beyond  cavil.  Let  him  paint  such 
an  interior  with  figures  as  his  “Diploma”  picture  at 
Burlington  House  — the  grand  sala  of  the  Palazzo 
Barbaro  in  Venice  — let  him  sketch  a tangle  of  Vene- 
tian boats  against  an  architectural  background,  or  a 
gleaming  marble  quarry,  or  a scene  in  the  Holy  Land, 
or  a Scotch  salmon  stream,  or  the  courtyard  of  an 
old  Spanish  tavern,  and  so  on  through  an  interminable 


238 


Sargent 


list  of  subjects,  and  he  is  always  uncannily  compe- 
tent, interesting  to  the  point  of  being  fairly  exciting. 
And  yet  I doubt  if  any  of  these  achievements  will 
lessen  the  predominating  significance  in  his  career  of 
that  little  cosmos  which  is  composed  of  his  portraits. 

What  a varied  world  it  is,  ranging  from  that  early 
profile  of  a girl  of  Capri  which,  by  the  way,  is  one 
of  the  finest  things  he  ever  did,  to  the  great  canvas 
of  “The  Four  Doctors,”  presented  to  Johns  Hopkins 
University  in  1907.  I have  already  alluded  to  that 
as  the  monumental  exception  to  Sargent’s  compara- 
tive incertitude  in  the  painting  of  group  portraits. 
He  put  the  masterpiece  together  with  impressive 
knowledge.  The  grouping  of  the  figures,  which  is  so 
natural,  is  also  so  wisely  managed  that  it  makes  an 
interesting  picture.  Consider  the  way  in  which  the 
heads  and  hands  are  treated,  how  simply,  how  accu- 
rately, with  what  grasp  of  anatomical  structure.  Con- 
sider the  quality  of  the  color.  Black  is  one  of  the 
hardest  colors  in  the  world  to  use  in  a painting,  for 
it  may  so  easily  be  left  merely  black,  and  dull,  but 
Sargent,  using  a great  deal  of  it,  rises  above  himself 
as  a colorist,  and,  for  once,  gives  us  many  modula- 
tions of  tone,  which  are  nowhere  opaque,  but  every- 
where have  a semi-transparent  vitality.  And  consider 
the  style,  how  the  brushwork  shows,  on  every  inch  of 
the  canvas,  a kind  of  energy  and  strength,  a quality, 
too,  that  is  new  and  fresh,  individual,  as  much  Sar- 
gent’s own  as  is  his  signature.  It  is  a great  portrait 


Sargent 


239 


because  of  its  sound  workmanship  and  the  stamp  of 
originality  that  is  upon  it;  and  there  is  another  rea- 
son for  calling  it  a great  portrait,  one  linking  it  with 
the  great  portraits  of  the  past  and  at  the  same  time 
bringing  us  back  to  the  actuality,  the  modernity,  the 
sense  of  character,  which  I have  already  indicated  as 
being  so  important  in  his  art. 

There  hangs  in  the  public  gallery  of  The  Hague  in 
Holland  one  of  the  world’s  renowned  pictures,  Rem- 
brandt’s “The  Lesson  in  Anatomy.”  Why  is  it  that 
that  painting  is  so  famous?  Partly  because  it  is  a good 
piece  of  workmanship,  partly  because  of  the  strength 
of  Rembrandt’s  style.  But  is  it  not  also  because  those 
old  doctors,  leaning  over  toward  the  corpse  in  the 
foreground,  and  listening  so  eagerly  to  the  words 
that  we  can  almost  hear  as  they  fall  from  the  lips  of 
Dr.  Tulp,  are  human  beings,  individuals  who  look  at 
us  across  the  gulf  of  time  as  though  they  lived  and 
breathed  ? Those  seventeenth-century  figures  are 
men  like  ourselves  and  we  greet  them  with  sym- 
pathy. It  is  because  Sargent  has  done  in  this  paint- 
ing what  Rembrandt  did  in  his  that  it  is  a great  por- 
trait. It  is  a great  portrait  because,  through  the 
magic  of  Sargent’s  brush,  future  generations  will  look 
at  the  doctors  in  this  painting,  and  greet  them  with 
sympathy.  I cannot  but  feel  that  the  painter  exer- 
cised there  a function  higher  than  that  whose  action 
is  to  be  discerned  in  other  works  of  his,  no  matter 
how  masterly,  in  other  domains  of  art.  The  decora- 


240 


Sargent 


tions  in  the  Boston  Public  Library,  some  of  them  in 
place  long  since  and  the  rest  now  the  object  of  his 
keenest  solicitude,  can  but  serve,  in  my  opinion,  to 
confirm  this  hypothesis.  The  new  paintings  when 
they  appear  may  invite  new  reflections,  but  it  seems 
incredible  that  they  should  utterly  transcend  the  old 
ones.  These  represent  a high  ambition,  they  fill  given 
spaces  with  imposing  ideas  eloquently  expressed;  but 
as  decorations,  in  the  strict  sense,  they  want  the  unity 
which  elsewhere  Sargent  so  easily  achieves.  Some  of 
the  strongest  elements  in  them  are  elements  of  por- 
traiture — ■ powerful  characterization  and  bold,  simple 
handling  of  forms  in  the  now  celebrated  frieze  of 
Prophets,  and  certain  specific  embodiments,  like  the 
Astarte  or  the  Moloch,  in  the  upper  sections  of  the 
scheme  at  either  end  of  the  hall. 

It  is,  then,  as  a portrait-painter  that  he  stands  head 
and  shoulders  above  all  his  contemporaries,  even  his 
failures  possessing  an  interest  denied  to  many  a clever 
artist’s  successes.  Those  failures  he  would  probably 
be  the  first  to  acknowledge  and  deplore,  and  I dare 
say  that  they  have  been  due  to  want  of  sympathy 
more  than  to  anything  else.  In  the  Boston  exhibi- 
tion I have  mentioned  there  were  fifteen  or  twenty 
portraits  executed  during  a visit  paid  to  this  coun- 
try not  long  before.  The  good  works  and  the  bad 
ones  in  the  lot  were  clearly  those  which  had  been 
done  with  enthusiasm  and  those  which  were  perfunc- 
tory. If  he  had  failed  to  wreak  himself  to  good  pur- 


Sargent 


241 


pose  upon  some  of  his  subjects  it  was  because  they 
had  given  him  no  such  inspiration  as  that  by  which 
he  was  moved  when  he  painted,  for  example,  the 
large  portrait  of  Colonel  Higginson  for  the  Harvard 
Union.  To  the  making  of  that  he  had  brought  warm 
feeling,  and  he  lifted  it  to  an  almost  heroic  plane. 
When  he  paints  pot-boilers  he  is  lost.  Not  his  most 
elaborate  portrait  of  a gorgeous  personage,  set  in  the 
most  luxurious  surroundings,  has,  if  he  has  put  noth- 
ing but  mere  workmanship  into  it,  anything  like  the 
interest  which  attaches  to  some  such  a sincere  frag- 
ment as  his  sketch  of  the  painter  Helleu,  working  in 
the  open  air.  His  pencil  portraits  are  uneven.  They 
are  only  worthy  of  him  when  they  reveal  that  caress- 
ing instinct  for  delicacy  of  linear  effect  which  a long 
time  ago  he  showed  to  such  beguiling  purpose  in 
the  sketch  he  painted  of  the  wax  bust  at  Lille  at- 
tributed to  Raphael.  Yet  in  recalling  the  great  mass 
of  Sargent’s  work,  I have  been  impressed  by  the 
comparative  scarcity  of  portraits  to  which  the  word 
failure  might  in  justice  be  applied  — and  by  the  dis- 
position, moreover,  of  most  of  his  successes  to  not 
merely  fill  the  moment  with  their  eclat,  but  to  “wear 
well.”  Fortunate  is  the  generation  that  is  privileged 
to  be  painted  by  him! 

• 

The  individual,  I may  add,  is  doubly  fortunate  in 
the  experience,  for  to  sit  to  Sargent  is  to  receive  pre- 
cious light  on  the  subject  of  the  painter’s  art.  Though 
I have  no  first-hand  information  on  the  point  I can 


242 


Sargent 


nevertheless  append  here  some  authentic  notes  upon 
it.  When  the  painting  of  “The  Four  Doctors”  was 
unveiled  at  Johns  Hopkins  I had  the  privilege  of 
speaking  there  on  the  art  that  had  produced  it  and 
in  the  course  of  the  evening  I heard  some  remarks 
from  one  of  the  men  in  the  group  which  struck  me  as 
of  high  value  to  the  student.  Dr.  William  H.  Welch 
described  his  meetings  with  Sargent  and  what  went 
on  in  the  studio  as  he  came  back  again  and  again 
to  pose,  and  to  me,  as  a critic,  what  he  said  gave 
precisely  the  little  personal  touches  which  help  the 
historian  to  elucidate  the  manner  in  which  a great 
portrait  is  made.  I endeavored  at  the  time  to  sum- 
marize the  Doctor’s  words  and  with  his  permission  I 
repeat  their  substance  here. 

His  sketch  of  Sargent’s  personality  was  wonder- 
fully true  and  vivid.  He  spoke  of  the  painter  as  a 
tall,  strong,  altogether  virile  type;  very  agreeable  to 
meet;  a widely  cultivated  man,  able  to  talk  well  on 
any  subject  that  might  be  brought  up.  For  example, 
Dr.  Welch  pointed  out  that  the  book  he  is  supposed 
to  be  reading  in  the  portrait  is  a seventeenth-century 
edition  of  Petrarch.  He  had  alluded  to  a line  in  the 
writings  of  the  poet,  whereupon  Sargent  had  brought 
out  the  volume,  and  had  proceeded  to  talk  in  the 
most  interesting  manner  about  Petrarch  and  the 
Renaissance  in  general.  He  more  than  once  tried 
to  draw  Sargent  out  on  the  subject  of  art,  and  al- 
ways with  suggestive  results.  Hals  and  Velasquez 


Sargent 


243 


were  evidently  the  painter’s  most  cherished  masters. 
He  talked  so  inspiringly  about  Hals,  when  Dr.  Welch 
told  him  he  had  been  looking  at  “The  Laughing 
Cavalier,”  in  the  Wallace  Collection,  that,  as  soon  as 
the  Doctor  was  free  to  do  so,  that  summer,  he  trav- 
elled to  Haarlem  to  see  the  Dutch  painter’s  great 
corporation  groups  there.  He  recalled  a saying  of 
Sargent’s  about  Gainsborough  — that  having  painted 
a thing  he  left  it  finished  or  unfinished,  for  good  or 
ill,  and  did  not  try  coldly  to  work  it  over  and  make 
it  academically  satisfactory  after  the  fashion  of  Reyn- 
olds. It  was  impossible  to  listen  to  Dr.  Welch  with- 
out being  made  to  realize  the  genuineness  and  attract- 
iveness of  Sargent’s  character  and  personality. 

Speaking  of  the  making  of  the  portrait,  Dr.  Welch 
described  Sargent  as  grouping  his  four  sitters,  over 
and  over  again,  before  he  was  satisfied.  Sometimes 
he  requested  two  of  the  doctors  to  stand,  and  then 
only  one  of  them.  He  changed  their  positions,  con- 
stantly. Before  he  began  to  paint,  however,  he 
settled  upon  the  grouping  that  is  shown  in  the  com- 
pleted portrait,  and  this,  as  Dr.  Welch  said,  disposes 
of  the  assertion  made  by  some  critics  that  the  com- 
position had  taken  its  form  by  accident  and  as  the 
work  proceeded.  Dr.  Welch  also  noted  that  the  en- 
largement of  the  canvas  by  a piece  joined  at  the  side 
and  another  at  the  top  was  not  unforeseen,  but  was 
mentioned  by  Sargent  at  the  outset  as  a thing  he 
expected  to  have  done.  The  grouping,  then,  and  the 


244 


Sargent 


scale  of  the  portrait  were  fixed  by  the  artist  when  he 
began,  and  so  the  sitters  went  on  to  do  their  part. 
They  were  sometimes  all  together  in  the  studio,  but 
not  often.  Sometimes  three  of  them  sat,  sometimes 
two  of  them,  but  more  often  each  doctor  was  posed 
by  himself.  Dr.  Welch’s  head  was  painted  practically 
in  one  sitting.  He  was  struck  by  Sargent’s  unobtru- 
sive way  of  studying  him;  he  never  felt  that  he  was 
being  closely  scrutinized.  Sargent  talked  constantly 
while  he  was  at  work,  smoked  innumerable  cigarettes, 
and  was  always  walking  to  and  fro.  When  Dr.  Welch 
asked  him  about  this  exercise,  he  said  laughingly  that 
he  had  once  estimated  that  he  walked  about  four 
miles  a day  in  his  studio.  Though  Dr.  Welch’s  head 
was  painted  so  quickly,  the  painter  was  not  equally 
swift  in  his  treatment  of  all  the  other  sitters.  Dr. 
Osier,  especially,  had  to  give  sitting  after  sitting. 

The  work  went  forward,  on  the  whole,  with  great 
smoothness.  There  were  some  difficulties,  as  when 
the  portrait  of  Dr.  Osier  struck  them  all  as  a failure 
and  Sargent  painted  it  out  and  did  it  all  over  again. 
But  then  everything  seemed  to  move  swimmingly. 
Just  at  this  time  Sargent  himself  suddenly  grew  dis- 
couraged. He  paused  one  day,  and  knitting  his  brow, 
and  lifting  his  hand  with  a gesture  of  bewilderment, 
he  said:  “It  won’t  do.  It  isn’t  a picture.  I cannot 
see  just  what  to  do,  but  it  isn’t  a picture.”  He  stood 
for  a little  while  thinking  it  over,  and  presently  the 
clouds  seemed  to  pass.  He  asked  if  there  would  be 


Sargent 


245 


anything  incongruous  about  the  introduction  of  a 
large,  old  Venetian  globe  into  the  background.  It 
was  in  his  other  studio,  he  said,  and  he  would  have 
it  brought  around  if  it  were  permissible.  Of  course 
it  was;  and  a day  or  two  after,  the  globe  was  there. 
It  was  so  large  that  he  had  to  have  the  doorway 
chopped  to  get  it  into  the  room.  (That  was  very 
like  Sargent;  he  would  have  had  an  entire  wall  re- 
moved if  it  had  been  necessary  in  making  the  por- 
trait a perfect  work  of  art.)  When  they  sat  again 
with  the  globe  in  the  background,  Sargent  studied 
the  group  with  anxious  interest,  and  then,  in  a swift 
stroke,  drew  the  silhouette  of  the  object  on  the  can- 
vas. “We  have  got  our  picture,”  he  said,  and  the 
portrait  as  it  stands  shows  with  what  unerring  in- 
stinct he  had  thought  of  the  one  thing  fitted  to  serve 
his  purpose. 

Dr.  Welch  had  some  very  interesting  things  to  say 
about  the  color  scheme.  He  asked  Sargent  if  he 
could  wear  his  Yale  robe,  and  the  painter  immedi- 
ately acquiesced;  but  when  Dr.  Osier  spoke  of  wear- 
ing his  red  Oxford  robe,  Sargent  humorously  forbade 
it,  saying:  “No,  I can’t  paint  you  in  that.  It  won’t 
do.  I know  all  about  that  red.  You  know  they  gave 
me  a degree  down  there,  and  I’ve  got  one  of  those 
robes.”  Musingly,  he  went  on.  “I’ve  left  it  on  the 
roof  in  the  rain.  I’ve  buried  it  in  the  garden.  It’s 
no  use.  The  red  is  as  red  as  ever.  The  stuff  is  too 
good.  It  won’t  fade.  Now,  if  you  could  get  a Dub- 


246 


Sargent 


lin  degree?  The  red  robes  there  are  made  of  differ- 
ent stuff,  and  if  you  wash  them  they  come  down  to 
a beautiful  pink.  Do  you  think  you  could  get  a 
Dublin  degree?  — No,  I couldn’t  paint  you  in  that 
Oxford  red!  Why,  do  you  know  they  say  that  the 
women  who  work  on  the  red  coats  worn  by  the 
British  soldiers  have  all  sorts  of  trouble  with  their 
eyes,”  etc.,  etc. 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


i. 

ii. 

hi. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 


The  Prado 

The  Prado  Revisited 

Velasquez  at  the  Hispanic  Museum 

The  Rokeby  Venus 

El  Greco  and  Goya 

Four  Modern  Spaniards : 

Fortuny 

Sorolla 

Zuloaga 

Vierge 


X 


SPANISH  ART  IN  SPAIN  AND 
ELSEWHERE 

I 

THE  PRADO 

There  is  a kind  of  artistic  mastery  so  rare  that  the 
great  painters  of  the  past  to  whom  it  belongs  form  a 
small  group  apart,  and  even  among  those  few  there 
are  fewer  who  have  the  gift  untrammelled.  By  that 
gift  is  meant  a control  over  the  instruments  of  ex- 
pression so  absolute  and  so  effortless  that  there  seems 
to  intervene  between  the  conception  of  a design 
and  its  execution  no  more  hesitancy  than  will  be 
observed  between  the  impulse  of  a bird  to  soar  and 
its  pause  at  the  apex  of  its  flight.  Such  mastery  con- 
veys the  impression  of  an  almost  musical  sequence 
in  the  evolution  of  a picture.  In  Velasquez  it  is 
found  developed  with  positively  classic  symmetry. 
In  his  work  the  science  of  the  composer,  the  instinct 
of  the  colorist,  the  intellectual  and  emotional  inten- 
tion of  an  observant  thinker,  and  the  imperturbable 
refinement  of  a man  of  taste,  seem  to  have  travelled 


249 


250  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


on  simultaneously  and  in  perfect  harmony  to  the  at- 
tainment of  a common  end.  It  is  this  more  than  any- 
thing else  that  makes  him  the  most  powerful  artistic 
magnet  south  of  the  Pyrenees,  if  not  the  most  elo- 
quent oracle  in  Europe  for  whoever  wishes  to  know 
the  law  of  art  as  dictated,  not  by  the  dreamer,  the 
poet,  the  dramatist,  the  moralist,  but  pre-eminently 
by  the  painter.  It  is  this  that  makes  the  Prado  a 
shrine. 

I 

Just  how  much  of  the  potency  of  Madrid  as  an 
artistic  Mecca  is  dependent  upon  works  other  than 
those  of  Velasquez  it  is  necessary  to  state  with  some 
care.  The  city  is  one  of  the  minor  capitals  of  Europe 
architecturally,  and  the  environment  provided  by  na- 
ture for  such  monuments  as  it  possesses  is  none  of  the 
best.  The  surrounding  landscape  is  monotonous  and 
bare.  The  few  parks  are  pretty  in  themselves,  and 
the  famous  promenade  known  as  the  Prado  is  broad 
and  pretentious;  but  these  attractions  are  insufficient 
to  counterbalance  the  shabbiness  of  dusty,  ill-kept 
streets,  and  dwellings  in  a dull,  nondescript  style. 
Life  in  Madrid  is  rendered  diverting  upon  occasions 
of  public  rejoicing  by  the  presence  of  the  court,  other- 
wise it  is  the  same  as  in  other  large  modern  cities, 
like  New  York  or  London,  only  not  so  bright.  The 
bull-ring  alone  may  claim  to  be  better  managed  in 
Madrid  than  anywhere  else.  This  and  the  ball  game 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  251 


called  pelota,  which  was  brought  recently  from  the 
Basque  provinces,  are  the  only  important  national 
spectacles,  or  old  and  picturesque  institutions,  which 
survive  in  the  centre  of  Spanish  political  life. 

There  is  little  in  Madrid  itself,  then,  which  makes 
it  a temptation  to  wander  from  the  highways  of  Eu- 
ropean travel.  Very  few  of  the  buildings  and  collec- 
tions, aside  from  the  great  museum,  are  worthy  of  a 
capital  city.  The  most  that  can  be  said  for  the  royal 
palace,  an  enormous  building  designed  by  a Pied- 
montese architect,  Sacchetti,  is  that  it  has  more  sim- 
plicity than  was  usual  in  the  late  Renaissance  period 
from  which  it  dates,  and  that  under  one  of  the  rav- 
ishing skies  of  which  Spain  is  prodigal  in  spring  and 
summer  it  has  a regal  dignity  which  is  impressive,  if 
the  purely  artistic  features  of  the  scheme  are  not. 
Of  the  armory  attached  to  the  palace  it  is  possible 
to  speak  more  cordially.  It  contains  a marvellous 
collection  of  antique  mail  and  weapons,  and  has  the 
virtue,  moreover,  of  being  very  well  arranged.  The 
Academy  of  San  Ferdinand  has  some  good  pictures; 
and  in  the  square  before  the  royal  palace  there  is  a 
fine  equestrian  bronze  of  Philip  IV,  by  the  Florentine 
Tacca.  In  naming  this  slender  body  of  creditable 
things  I have  fairly  summarized,  I believe,  those 
monuments  in  Madrid  which  do  not,  at  any  rate, 
conflict  with  the  glory  concentrated  in  the  Museum 
of  the  Prado.  They  are  few  enough. 

But  in  the  Royal  Museum  there  exists  a treasure 


252  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


which  might  make  the  reputation  of  any  capital. 
The  actual  building,  lacking  as  it  is  in  the  first  essen- 
tial of  an  art  gallery,  well-lighted  chambers,  is  yet  in 
all  other  respects  worthy  of  its  contents.  Charles 
III  began  it  in  the  last  century  as  an  Academy  of 
Natural  History.  The  portrait  of  his  architect,  Juan 
de  Villanueva,  painted  by  Goya,  hangs  in  the  Acad- 
emy of  San  Ferdinand.  It  shows  a man  of  quick, 
intelligent  faculties,  but  with  the  formal  placidity  of 
his  time,  the  very  man  from  whom  a design  with 
the  stately  lines  of  the  museum  was  to  be  expected. 
He  produced  an  excellent  building  for  his  royal  pa- 
tron; commonplace,  perhaps,  but  in  good  taste  and 
dignified.  It  was  long  in  coming  to  completion.  The 
death  of  its  founder  saw  it  unfinished.  Charles  IV, 
who  aimed  to  carry  out  the  plan  of  his  predecessor, 
was  no  more  expeditious  in  the  erection  of  the  edifice. 
Early  in  this  century  it  narrowly  escaped  being  put 
in  shape  by  the  French  as  a picture-gallery.  Joseph 
Bonaparte  entertained  some  such  idea,  and  would 
doubtless  have  put  it  into  execution  had  not  the 
peninsular  wars  diverted  this  as  well  as  many  an- 
other ambitious  project. 

When  Ferdinand  VII  was  re-established  upon  the 
throne  of  Spain  the  building  was  much  in  need  of 
repairs.  These  were  made  under  the  advice  of  his 
wife,  Maria  Isabel  of  Braganza.  She  advocated  the 
use  of  the  structure  as  a museum  of  art,  and  in  the 
fall  of  1819  three  rooms  were  hung  with  three  hundred 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  253 


and  eleven  pictures.  Another  gallery  was  opened  in 
1821;  others  followed  in  1828,  1830,  and  1839  respect- 
ively; and  in  1892,  under  the  regency,  the  most  sat- 
isfactory room  in  the  building  was  redecorated  and 
rearranged.  This  is  the  Sala  de  la  Reina  Isabel,  a 
spacious  gallery,  which  corresponds  in  relative  signifi- 
cance to  the  Salon  Carre  of  the  Louvre  and  the  Tri- 
buna of  the  Uffizi.  It  was  used  as  such,  which  is  to 
say  for  the  display  of  the  choicest  gems  of  all  the 
schools,  until  1899,  when,  in  celebration  of  the  third 
centenary  of  the  birth  of  Velasquez,  it  was  conse- 
crated solely  to  his  works.  The  pictures  are  chiefly  the 
property  of  the  crown,  having  been  drawn  from  the 
palace  in  Madrid,  from  the  Escorial,  from  other  royal 
residences,  and  from  the  monastic  bodies  whose  prop- 
erty was  confiscated  to  the  state  early  in  the  thirties. 
At  the  present  time  there  are  over  two  thousand  pic- 
tures sheltered  in  the  Museum  of  the  Prado  — so 
called  from  the  prado  or  meadow  extending  along  the 
eastern  side  of  Madrid,  which  was  transformed  by 
Charles  III  into  the  promenade  now  celebrated  in 
the  history  of  the  city. 

It  is  a splendid  patrimony  that  is  enshrined  in  the 
Prado.  Beginning  with  Isabel  the  Catholic,  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  the  older  Spanish  sovereigns  had  a 
passionate  taste  for  art  and  abundant  means  where- 
with to  gratify  it.  Isabel  was  a generous  collector  of 
the  religious  art  of  her  epoch.  Charles  V,  the  Em- 
peror, was  the  patron  of  Titian,  and  accumulated 


254  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


among  many  precious  pictures  by  other  artists  a 
large  number  from  the  hand  of  Antonio  Moro,  one  of 
the  first  of  Dutch  portrait-painters.  Philip  II  inher- 
ited his  father’s  enthusiasm  for  the  great  Venetian, 
and  added  also  numerous  Italian  and  Flemish  works 
to  the  collection  of  his  house.  The  royal  ardor  for 
collecting  was  abated  in  the  reign  of  Philip  III,  but 
it  was  resumed  in  the  most  earnest  dilettante  of  them 
all,  Philip  IV,  himself  a painter,  a tireless  seeker  after 
the  masterpieces  of  Italian  painting,  and,  what  is  more 
particularly  to  our  purpose,  the  friend  and  patron  of 
Velasquez.  Philip’s  interest  in  art  knew  no  bounds. 
It  was  for  him  that  the  Spanish  ambassador  in  London, 
Alonso  Cardenas,  attended  the  sale  of  the  pictures  of 
Charles  I and  paid  £2000  for  the  “Perla”  of  Raphael. 
Foreign  powers  knew  that  no  gifts  were  more  welcome 
than  pictures  by  noted  artists,  and  to  their  friendli- 
ness we  owe  some  of  the  best  things  in  the  Prado. 
In  Flanders  the  King’s  brother  and  Viceroy,  Don 
Ferdinand,  secured  him  dozens  of  valuable  pictures 
by  the  masters  of  that  region.  When  Rubens  came 
on  an  embassy  to  the  King  he  remained  for  nine 
months,  during  which  time  his  activity  in  the  service 
of  the  court  was  prodigious.  Philip  had  finally  the 
harvestings  of  two  journeys  which  Velasquez  made  to 
Italy,  partly  in  the  King’s  interest  and  partly  in  his 
own.  Truly  the  ruler  so  pliant  under  the  crafty  hand 
of  his  minister  Olivarez  was  an  indefatigable  amateur. 
Philip  was  the  finest  horseman  and  the  most  culti- 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  255 


vated  connoisseur  in  Spain.  No  one  is  known  to  have 
equalled  him  in  either  field.  There  have  been  costly 
additions  to  the  royal  collection  since  his  death,  but 
it  may  justly  be  said  that  Philip  IV  and  Velasquez 
set  the  capstone  to  the  Museum  of  the  Prado. 

II 

When  Velasquez  was  appointed  court  painter  and 
came  to  live  in  Madrid,  in  1623,  there  was  no  museum 
there,  but,  as  I have  shown,  there  had  been  gathered 
together  by  the  kings  of  Spain,  and  scattered  among 
their  palaces,  hundreds  of  the  pictorial  triumphs  of 
Italy  and  Flanders.  Philip  was  adding  to  them  as 
rapidly  as  he  could.  It  is  possible  to  study  in  the 
Prado  to-day  much  that  contributed  to  the  atmos- 
phere into  which  Velasquez  was  thrown,  and  in  which 
for  the  rest  of  his  life  he  lived.  It  affected  him  in  no 
positive  way,  but  it  is  worth  examination  for  its  own 
sake.  It  was  an  Italian  atmosphere  chiefly,  and  it 
was  warm  with  the  sensuous  tones  of  the  Venetian 
school.  Until  the  rise  of  Velasquez  there  was  no  great 
art  indigenous  in  Spain,  and  the  only  eminent  painter 
born  in  the  country,  Ribera,  had  early  migrated  to 
Italy,  and  developed  his  art  under  the  naturalistic 
influence  of  Caravaggio.  Ribera  had  also,  without 
knowing  it,  something  of  the  mechanism  of  Rem- 
brandt — something  of  his  sleight  of  hand  in  placing 
a figure  in  such  an  arrangement  of  light  that  its  sa- 


256  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


lient  points  of  anatomy  and  expression  were  brought 
into  sharp  relief.  We  shall  see  how  Velasquez  prof- 
ited by  his  example.  The  Spaniards  were  fond  of 
Ribera’s  melodramatic  style;  his  persistent  choice 
of  harrowing  subjects  from  the  martyrology  of  the 
Church  appealed  to  a race  nurtured  on  the  horrors 
of  the  Inquisition,  and  his  works  abound  in  Spain. 
But  the  court  was  anxious  for  some  contrast  to  the 
sombre  tones  of  the  Escorial  and  the  Alcazar,  and 
it  happened  that  this  major  period  of  Spanish  con- 
noisseurship  synchronized  with  the  rich  afterglow  of 
the  Italian  Renaissance.  Circumstances  thus  com- 
bined to  bring  to  Madrid  before  all  other  works  the 
sunny  canvases  of  the  colorists  in  the  north  of  Italy, 
Veronese,  Tintoretto,  and  Titian.  The  three  were 
masters  in  a period  of  decline,  but  their  decadence 
was  ablaze  with  the  magic  of  a thousand  sunsets. 

Titian  is  superb  in  Madrid.  There  may  be  appre- 
hended the  poetic  passion  of  his  bacchanalian  “Ari- 
adne,” the  sweep  and  majesty  of  his  “Charles  V on 
Horseback,”  the  bewitching,  supple  grace  of  his  “ Sa- 
lome,” the  quaintness  and  mediaeval  fancy  of  his 
“Venus- Worship,”  the  distinction  of  his  portraiture 
in  some  of  its  best  manifestations,  and  in  all  the 
twoscore  works  the  glow  of  his  matchless  palette. 
Nowhere  in  Europe  can  the  compass  of  the  art  which 
brought  forth  his  easel  paintings  be  more  adequately 
measured  than  in  Madrid.  To  estimate  his  work  as 
a mural  painter  it  is  necessary  to  visit  Padua,  but  as 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  257 


a portrait-painter,  and  as  a designer  of  compositions 
on  a moderate  scale,  he  is,  through  the  liberality  of 
the  monarchs  of  Spain,  as  much  the  property  of  their 
country  as  of  his  own.  Though  the  scope  of  Vero- 
nese, on  the  other  hand,  is  better  ascertained  in  Venice 
than  in  Madrid,  there  are  nevertheless  some  priceless 
works  of  his  in  the  Prado,  among  them  a “ Jesus 
Disputing  with  the  Doctors,”  which  recalls  the  great 
banquet  scene  in  the  Academy  at  Venice  in  the  sym- 
metry and  architectural  character  of  its  grouping. 
Veronese  is  most  victoriously  himself,  most  dazzling, 
and  most  a designer  of  original  genius  in  the  Vene- 
tian picture  and  in  his  ceiling  decorations,  yet  he  fig- 
ures brilliantly  in  the  Spanish  collection,  being  one 
of  its  principal  pillars. 

So  also  is  Tintoretto,  little  as  there  is  in  the  Prado 
to  rival  the  stupendous  decorations  of  the  Ducal 
Palace  and  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco.  There  is  at 
least  a gorgeous  sea-fight  of  his,  there  are  some  of  his 
most  successful  portraits  of  Venetian  noblemen,  and 
in  two  compositions  in  the  same  vein  as  much  of  his 
Italian  work  — a “Death  of  Holofernes”  and  a “Rape 
of  Lucretia  ” — he  touches  his  topmost  level  as  a de- 
signer and  a strenuous,  energetic  brushman.  In  the 
latter  capacity,  in  fact,  Tintoretto  shines  so  conspic- 
uously, and  he  was  so  sure,  therefore,  to  be  one  of 
the  first  favorites  of  the  Spanish  court,  that  it  is 
somewhat  surprising  to  find  not  more  than  nine  or 
ten  of  his  important  works  in  the  Prado.  The  brio 
in  his  execution,  the  easy,  virile  movement  of  his 


258  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


brush,  were  precisely  in  the  spirit  of  Philip  IV,  as 
may  further  be  inferred  from  the  regard  in  which  the 
latter  held  Rubens  — a painter  of  remarkably  kin- 
dred style. 

Over  threescore  works  by  Rubens  adorn  the  Prado, 
some  of  them  collected  prior  to  his  nine  months’  em- 
bassy to  Madrid  in  1628-9,  but  most  of  them  dating 
from  that  period.  For  the  student  of  this  painter 
they  render  the  Spanish  capital  a second  Antwerp, 
or,  indeed,  a more  important  city  than  that  on  the 
Scheldt.  Great  as  the  master’s  “Descent  from  the 
Cross”  in  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Jacques  may  be,  it 
expresses  less  concisely  than  the  numerous  works  in 
the  Prado  the  peculiar  cachet  of  his  talent,  the  blend 
of  courtly,  artificial  refinement  with  the  coarse  tem- 
per of  the  Low  Countries  that  not  all  his  experiences 
in  noble  society  fitted  him  to  shake  off.  Van  Dyck 
was  the  only  Fleming  who  could  ever  paint  a gentle- 
man, or  throw  over  sitters  of  less  fortunate  birth  an 
air  of  good  breeding  drawn  from  his  own  nature.  To 
prove  this  is  an  easy  task  in  the  Prado,  where  some 
half-dozen  of  his  finest  portraits  are  assembled,  where 
the  tenderness  of  his  “Pieta”  may  be  set  against  the 
robust  materialism  and  shallow  sentiment  of  Rubens’s 
treatment  of  the  same  theme,  where  the  buxom  lines 
of  the  latter’s  “Marie  de’  Medici”  may  be  viewed 
in  the  light  of  the  unsurpassed  elegance  of  Van  Dyck’s 
“David  Ryckaert,”  one  of  the  really  distinguished 
portraits  in  the  world. 

The  naturalism  of  Rubens  was  florid,  even  a trifle 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  259 


vulgar.  He  lacked  reticence  and  equability  of  spirit. 
Side  by  side  with  the  theatricality  and  ornamental 
conceit  which  embroidered  with  the  most  curious 
accessories  of  costume  and  etojfage  those  pictures  of 
“Andromeda,”  “The  Garden  of  Love,”  “The  Judg- 
ment of  Paris,”  “The  Three  Graces,”  and  so  on, 
which  give  the  Prado  its  principal  memorials  of  a 
princely,  luxurious,  rococo  point  of  view  — side  by 
side  with  those  elements  of  decorative  power  goes 
an  impenetrable  coarseness,  which  at  times  might  be 
given  a coarser  name.  Yet  it  is  in  Rubens,  more  than 
in  any  of  the  Venetians,  that  the  student  of  Velas- 
quez begins  to  find  himself  on  familiar  ground,  for 
Rubens  had  in  one  of  its  phases  the  mastery  which  is 
the  property  and  fame  of  his  Spanish  contemporary. 
His  elaborate  equestrian  portraits  of  Philip  II  and 
the  Infante  Don  Ferdinand  foreshadow  even  more 
pointedly  than  Titian’s  “Charles  V”  the  masterpieces 
by  Velasquez  in  the  same  field  that  were  destined  to 
eclipse  them  all.  That  Rubens  had  an  actual  influ- 
ence, more  or  less  deep,  upon  Velasquez  is  often  as- 
serted, but  it  is  hard  to  prove,  and  is  much  easier 
confuted.  He  prefigured  the  well-known  second  man- 
ner of  Velasquez,  it  is  true,  but  in  no  sense  that  might 
imply  imitation  or  emulation  on  the  part  of  the  Span- 
iard, and  it  is  well  to  make  a careful  comparison  of 
the  two.  They  were  in  sympathy  on  certain  points, 
especially  on  the  question  of  an  elastic,  flowing  method 
of  execution,  but  there  is  no  evidence  in  the  pictures 


260  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


of  Velasquez  that  his  intimacy  with  Rubens  at  the 
time  of  the  latter’s  visit  to  Madrid,  in  1628,  resulted 
in  the  expansion  of  his  style  which  soon  after  became 
noticeable.  The  events  came  very  near  to  each  other 
in  point  of  time,  but  it  was  a coincidence  of  chronol- 
ogy, nothing  more. 

It  is  far  more  likely  that  Velasquez  changed  his 
style  under  the  influence  of  the  masters  whom  Rubens 
himself  adored,  and  whom  he  studied  on  his  visit  to 
Italy  in  1629,  though  this  hypothesis  is  also  entirely 
gratuitous.  As  will  presently  be  shown,  the  art  of 
Velasquez  had  no  antecedents.  It  appears  the  more 
improbable,  moreover,  that  he  should  have  been 
touched  to  any  higher  efforts  by  the  example  of 
Rubens,  when  the  temperaments  of  the  latter  and 
himself  are  considered.  He  was  the  very  antithesis 
of  the  Fleming.  Both  were  courtiers,  but  one  was 
an  hidalgo  from  his  infancy,  and  the  other  was  a 
child  of  circumstance,  a favorite  of  fortune,  who  rose 
from  obscurity  to  renown,  carrying  with  him  the  in- 
stincts of  his  commoner  origin.  Little  as  Velasquez 
had  of  the  religious  sensitiveness  which  distinguishes 
the  Italians  of  the  golden  age,  he  was  far  more  likely 
to  be  stirred  in  the  very  heart  of  him  by  those  medi- 
tative men  than  by  the  poorly  disguised  sensuality 
of  Rubens.  As  a matter  of  fact,  not  even  the  thrill- 
ing sweetness  of  the  primitives,  whose  works  he  must 
have  seen  in  Rome  and  Florence,  entered  into  the 
composition  of  his  style,  and  there  are  paintings  in 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  261 


the  same  lofty  mood  by  the  later  Italians  in  the  Prado, 
paintings  with  which  he  was  presumably  familiar,  that 
not  in  the  slightest  degree  colored  his  style  or  altered 
his  outlook. 

There  is  something  curious  and  baffling  in  this  aloof- 
ness. One  wonders  how  so  delicately  perceptive  a 
painter  could  have  resisted  the  appeal  of  the  more 
elevated  Italians.  There  is  a magnificent  group  of 
Raphaels  in  the  Prado.  But  had.  these  pictures  any 
drastic  effect  upon  Philip’s  great  painter?  Was  he 
touched  by  the  divine  abstraction  in  the  Urbinate’s 
Madonnas^  Did  he  feel  the  intellectual  power,  if  not 
the  spiritual  significance,  of  the  “Christ  Bearing  the 
Cross,”  a work  that  within  its  comparatively  small 
dimensions  rivals  in  constructive  perfection  the  great- 
est frescoes  of  the  master?  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
recorded  that  in  a conversation  with  Salvator  Rosa, 
the  Spanish  painter  expressed  a frank  distaste  for  the 
Academic  art  of  Raphael,  and  a strong  preference  for 
the  Venetians.  He  could  appreciate  the  masterly 
draughtsmanship  which  renders  Raphael’s  portrait  of 
Bibbiena  in  the  Prado  a miracle,  but  it  is  only  nec- 
essary to  compare  that  keen  performance  with  the 
portrait  of  another  Italian  prelate  by  Velasquez,  the 
“ Innocent  X”  of  the  Doria  Palace  in  Rome,  to  see 
how  far  removed  the  fiery  directness  of  the  Spaniard 
was  from  the  cool,  calm  subtlety  of  the  Italian.  I can- 
not imagine,  either,  Velasquez  pausing  with  any  great 
contentment  before  the  few  other  spiritualized  Italian 


262  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


works  now  brought  together  in  the  Prado  — the  ex- 
quisitely pathetic  “Virgin.”  of  Giovanni  Bellini,  Lo- 
renzo Lotto’s  charming  “Betrothal,”  or  the  “Ma- 
donna with  Saints,”  once  attributed  to  Giorgione  but 
now  to  Titian,  which  seems  to  me  the  most  rare  and 
beautiful  foreign  gem  in  the  entire  collection.  Del 
Sarto  and  Correggio  did  not,  it  is  safe  to  say,  interest 
him  in  the  least.  Nor  could  he  have  had  much  taste 
for  the  patient,  austere,  and  polished  art  of  Van  der 
Weyden,  Mending,  and  Van  Eyck,  three  masters  who 
are  represented  in  Madrid  at  their  best.  He  would 
have  given  them  all  for  some  glittering  figure  from 
Titian’s  imperious  brush.  Even  that  he  would  have 
held  on  his  own  terms,  as  an  inspiration,  and  not  as 
a model. 

HI 

That  Velasquez  was  the  most  isolated  of  artists  is 
the  first  and  last  conviction  enforced  upon  the  mind 
by  a search  for  anticipations  of  him  through  the  for- 
eign art  of  his  time,  and  the  conviction  deepens  as 
the  art  of  his  own  country  is  explored.  That  he  had 
no  successors  is  a commonplace  of  history,  and  that 
he  had  no  precursors  is  equally  certain.  The  first 
fruits  of  pictorial  art  in  Spain,  produced  in  the  fif- 
teenth century  by  a number  of  painters,  were  thin 
echoes  of  the  primitives  of  Italy  and  the  Low  Coun- 
tries. Juanes  and  Morales,  who  came  later,  were  un- 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  263 


worthy  followers  of  the  Roman  school,  founded  partly 
on  the  basis  of  his  Umbrian  training  by  Raphael;  and 
Sanchez  Coello,  who  died  a decade  earlier  than  the 
birth  of  Velasquez,  cultivated  and  handed  on  to  his 
pupil  Pantoja  de  la  Cruz  an  excessively  minute  but 
admirable  style  of  portraiture,  which  he  had  himself 
derived  from  Moro.  Coello’s  best  two  portraits  in 
the  Prado,  those  of  Don  Carlos  and  Dona  Isabel 
Clara  Eugenia,  the  son  and  daughter  of  Philip  II, 
show  that  he  understood  well  the  careful,  dry  method 
of  the  Dutchman;  but  there  is  no  more  in  these  than 
there  is  in  Moro’s  own  beautiful  “ Queen  Mary  of 
England,”  or  in  any  other  of  his  pictures  in  the  Prado, 
to  suggest  the  artist  soon  about  to  assume  the  sceptre 
in  the  peninsula. 

It  was  the  same  with  the  contemporary  countrymen 
of  Velasquez.  At  the  time  of  his  birth  — he  first  saw 
the  light  on  June  5,  1599  — there  was  little  art  of 
a good  quality  native  to  the  Spanish  soil,  and  a 
master  with  the  seeds  of  his  own  splendid  style  within 
him  was  utterly  unknown.  The  parents  of  Velas- 
quez, Juan  Rodriguez  de  Silva  and  Geronima  Velas- 
quez, were  well  born,  and  of  sufficient  means  for  their 
son  to  be  given  the  best  of  teachers,  yet  when  his 
apprenticeship  was  begun  their  choice  was  confined 
to  a small  handful  of  men  of  whom  not  one  had  de- 
cided power  and  originality.  They  placed  him  for  a 
time,  it  is  believed,  with  Francisco  Herrera,  a painter 
whose  turbulent  mannerisms  may  be  seen  at  their 


264  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


worst,  or  best,  as  you  choose,  in  the  huge  “San  Her- 
mengilda”  of  the  Prado.  Later,  when  in  about  his 
thirteenth  year,  Velasquez  entered  the  atelier  of  Fran- 
cisco Pacheco,  an  ingenious  critic  and  theorist,  but  a 
poor  painter  in  an  academic  style,  which  is  illustrated 
by  his  four  pictures  of  saints  in  the  Prado.  If  he 
taught  Velasquez  anything,  we  may  judge  from  these 
laboriously  executed  panels  that  he  grounded  his  pupil 
well  in  the  rudiments  of  drawing.  All  this  it  is  nec- 
essary to  state  with  emphasis,  because  one  of  the 
things  that  most  make  Velasquez  interesting  is  the 
detachment  to  which  I have  already  referred.  Else- 
where in  Europe  the  effect  of  the  Renaissance  was  as 
universal  as  it  was  deep.  In  Italy  the  great  wave 
of  culture  on  which  the  painters  were  borne  brought 
not  two  or  three,  but  a whole  race  of  artists  to  the 
enrichment  of  a wider  civilization.  In  Spain  the 
broad  sea  of  insularity  was  only  rippled  by  a current 
that  flowed  near  its  surface  from  Italy.  The  more 
important  names  that  were  lifted  above  the  horizon, 
Zurbaran,  Cano,  and  even  the  sentimental  Murillo, 
were  not  of  the  first  magnitude,  and  Velasquez  emerges 
from  the  depths,  unheralded,  solitary,  and  command- 
ing, one  of  the  unique  phenomena  in  history.  Full 
five  years  he  is  thought  to  have  labored  under 
Pacheco,  but  the  most  for  which  we  have  to  thank 
the  latter  is  that  he  gave  Velasquez  his  daughter  in 
1618,  when  the  student  was  nineteen,  and  that  he 
was  his  constant  friend  and  admirer,  smoothing  his 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  265 


way  to  the  court  with  letters  of  introduction  that 
were  of  substantial  service. 

The  first  visit  paid  to  the  capital  by  Velasquez, 
soon  after  the  accession  of  Philip  IV,  then  a mere 
youth,  in  1621,  was  futile  in  so  far  as  his  dearest 
wish  was  concerned.  He  hungered  for  a place  at 
court.  In  1623  a portrait  of  his  friend  Fonseca,  an 
influential  officer  in  the  royal  household,  obtained 
him  a sitting  from  the  King,  and  the  equestrian  por- 
trait of  the  latter  which  he  executed  then  won  him 
his  appointment  in  the  same  year.  This  portrait  of 
Philip,  which  has  long  since  disappeared,  brought  him 
the  special  interest  of  the  King  and  the  protection 
of  Olivarez,  who  was  daily  growing  in  power.  From 
this  time  on  Velasquez  remained  at  court,  his  life 
being  unmarked  by  any  episodes  more  striking  than 
a visit  to  Venice,  Rome,  and  Naples  in  1629,  and 
another  to  Italy  twenty  years  later.  These  journeys 
were  made  for  purposes  of  study  and  for  the  pur- 
chase of  works  of  art  for  the  King.  In  1660,  when 
Velasquez  was  in  his  sixty-first  year  and  his  master 
was  a man  of  fifty-four,  the  court  made  a tedious 
journey  to  San  Sebastian  to  meet  Louis  XIV.  Velas- 
quez, who  during  his  entire  sojourn  at  court  held 
numerous  offices,  attended  the  King  upon  this  occa- 
sion as  a kind  of  chamberlain,  arranging  fetes  and 
accommodations  for  Philip  and  his  suite.  The  exer- 
tion brought  him  back  to  Madrid  in  a state  of  ex- 
haustion, and  a month  after  his  arrival  home  he  was 


266  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


smitten  with  a fever  which  ended  his  life  on  Friday, 
August  6,  1660.  He  was  a Knight  of  the  Order  of 
Santiago  when  he  died,  and  the  most  celebrated 
painter  of  his  nation.  These  are  the  outlines  of  his 
career.  His  pictures  tell  the  rest. 

IV 

There  are  more  than  sixty  paintings  by  Velasquez 
in  the  Prado,  a collection  comprehending  the  greater 
proportion  of  his  work,  all  of  his  most  famous  com- 
positions, and,  in  fact,  everything  that  is  needed  for 
a complete  survey  of  his  genius.  If  the  earliest  of 
these  pictures  bring  us  at  once  back  to  the  question 
that  has  been  touched  upon  above,  the  external  forces 
that  may  have  gone  to  the  formation  of  his  style,  it 
need  at  least  be  considered  but  momentarily.  The 
expatriated  Ribera  alone,  of  all  the  artists  with  whose 
works  Velasquez  ever  came  in  contact,  exercised  any 
influence  upon  him,  and  that  influence  was  slight. 
He  confirmed  in  Velasquez  a quality  native  to  the 
latter — a tendency  to  employ  chiaroscuro  as  a prime 
factor  of  artistic  expression.  In  the  first  works  of 
Velasquez  his  resolution  to  obtain  an  artistic  effect 
by  means  of  more  or  less  artificial  light  is  clearly 
visible.  The  “Bacchus”  is  an  eloquent  testimony  to 
this.  The  “Adoration  of  the  Kings”  is  another,  and 
the  two  full-length  portraits  of  the  youthful  Philip 
and  his  brother  the  Infante  Don  Carlos  are  both 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  267 


based  on  the  assumption  that  a figure  costumed  in 
black,  thrown  against  a neutral  background  and  with 
the  light  concentrated  on  the  hands  and  wristbands, 
face  and  collar,  will  detach  itself  from  its  surround- 
ings readily  and  with  clearness.  Something  in  the 
studied  arrangement  in  these  pictures,  something  in 
the  deft  fashion  of  illumination  used  in  them  all,  may 
have  been  the  outcome  of  the  regard  in  which  Velas- 
quez is  known  to  have  held  Ribera’s  work.  But  his 
fibre  is  already  his  own,  and  it  is  just  here  that  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  ingredients  in  the  art  of  Ve- 
lasquez is  approached. 

In  all  his  works,  from  the  “Bacchus,”  painted 
within  a few  years  of  his  arrival  at  court,  to  “Las 
Hilanderas,”  which  marks  the  culmination  of  his  art, 
Velasquez  seems  endowed  with  a delicacy  of  poise,  a 
serene  refinement  of  feeling,  which  excluded  every- 
thing that  savored  of  roughness  in  the  texture,  tur- 
bidness in  the  color,  or  eccentricity  in  the  design  of 
a work  of  art.  This  characteristic  of  supreme  dis- 
crimination, a characteristic  of  impeccable  taste,  was 
one  of  the  things  that  in  Velasquez  took  the  place  of 
high  imagination.  For  he  was  not  imaginative  in 
the  creative  sense.  This  is  plain  from  the  absence 
of  any  poetic  felicity  in  his  few  sacred  and  mytholog- 
ical compositions.  There  is  no  more  ideality,  there 
is  no  more  religious  inspiration,  in  the  “Coronation 
of  the  Virgin,”  which  stands  at  the  termination  of  his 
career,  than  there  is  in  the  “Adoration  of  the  Kings,” 
which  stands  at  the  beginning,  or  in  the  “ Crucifixion,” 


268  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


which  comes  between.  It  is  useless  to  look  in  “The 
Forge  of  Vulcan,”  done  in  the  surcharged  atmosphere 
of  Rome,  or  in  the  “Mars”  and  the  “Mercury  and 
Argus,”  both  much  later  works,  for  such  a sym- 
pathetic realization  of  remote,  poetic  personalities  as 
exists  in  Raphael’s  Farnesina  decorations,  for  example, 
or  in  Botticelli’s  “Primavera.”  What  Velasquez  did 
have,  however,  that  enabled  him  to  exert  a lasting 
fascination,  was  that  critical  imagination  which  at  its 
best  amounts  to  clairvoyance.  He  could  not  body 
forth  a scene  from  Biblical  history  or  profane  litera- 
ture and  shed  over  it  the  supernatural  air  by  which 
it  is  to  be  most  truly  identified.  He  most  assuredly 
could  group  his  models  in  such  a way  as  to  produce 
a marvellous  balance  of  lines  and  masses,  of  light 
and  shade,  and  then  he  could  divine  in  each  figure 
all  the  significance,  less  than  poetic,  with  which  that 
material  symbol  could  be  credited. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Velasquez  was  prima- 
rily a portrait-painter,  and  that  his  first  aim  was  to 
penetrate  to  the  core  of  his  model’s  individuality. 
This  he  did  with  unerring  intuition,  and  on  this  plane 
his  range  was  boundless.  It  embraced  the  winning 
charm  of  the  two  little  girls  whose  portraits  in  the 
Prado  are  said  to  represent  the  daughters  of  Velas- 
quez, Ignacia  and  Francisca;  and  at  the  other  ex- 
treme he  was  capable  of  producing  such  a strange 
compound  of  senility  and  bilious  intelligence  as  is 
illustrated  in  the  “iEsop.”  The  companions  of  that 
incarnation  of  buoyant  adolescence  which  we  have  in 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  269 


the  portrait  of  “Prince  Balthasar  on  Horseback”  are 
the  equestrian  portraits  of  Philip  and  Olivarez  — 
the  one  showing  a man  who,  on  horseback  at  least, 
was  the  virile,  kingly  commander  Velasquez  has  rep- 
resented him  to  be;  the  other  a commentary  on  the 
Machiavelian,  underhand  character  of  the  King’s 
prime  minister,  which  all  the  records  of  the  time 
unite  to  indorse.  Every  type  seems  to  have  been 
approached  with  equal  sympathy  by  this  shrewd, 
thoughtful  painter,  and  he  passes  with  inimitable  ce- 
lerity and  sureness  from  the  open,  rugged  features  of 
his  friend  Montanes  (erroneously  known  from  this 
portrait  as  Alonso  Cano)  to  the  truculence  of  “Per- 
nia,”  the  shallow  slyness  of  “Don  Juan  of  Austria,” 
and  the  nervous  declamatory  habit  of  “Pablillos,” 
giving  to  each  of  Philip’s  three  buffoons  a character 
that  once  apprehended  is  impossible  to  banish  from 
the  memory  or  to  confuse  with  any  other.  In  the 
figure  of  Spinola,  which  fills  the  centre  of  “Las 
Lanzas,”  a veritable  ideal  of  martial  dignity  is 
preserved,  and  in  the  five  portraits  of  the  court 
dwarfs  — “El  Primo,”  “ Sebastian  Morra,”  “El  Bobo 
de  Coria,”  “El  Nino  de  Vallecas,”  and  “El  Ingles” 
— there  is  expressed  with  more  searching  analysis, 
with  more  appalling  fidelity,  than  you  will  find  in 
the  grotesques  of  Diirer,  Signorelli,  or  Leonardo,  the 
curiously  sinister  combination  of  puerility  and  eerie 
wisdom  which  science  and  superstition  alike  discover 
in  the  malformed  nature. 


270  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


V 

Velasquez  was  no  dramatist.  He  neither  sought 
nor  devised  a situation  in  which  some  momentous 
electrifying  occurrence  was  accomplished.  In  “The 
Forge  of  Vulcan”  and  in  “The  Surrender  of  Breda” 
he  comes  nearest  to  the  representation  of  a serious, 
moving  crisis,  and  even  in  these  the  predominating 
impulse  is  not  one  of  action  suddenly  liberated.  But 
in  this  very  connection  he  reveals  his  extraordinary 
skill  in  seizing  the  appearance  of  nature  and  fixing 
it  still  palpitating  upon  the  canvas.  Modern  painters 
talk  of  motion  in  art  as  though  it  were  worth  recogni- 
tion only  in  representations  of  impetuous  action,  like 
the  charge  of  a cavalry  regiment  or  the  leap  of  an 
acrobat.  Velasquez  saw  that  all  life  is  necessarily 
movement,  that  repose  is  only  movement  suspended, 
and  his  figures  are  not  arrested  in  space,  they  are  but 
pausing  of  their  own  volition,  a distinction  upon 
which  the  whole  theory  of  motion  in  art  may  be  said 
to  hinge.  Breathing,  thinking,  alive  with  all  the  sen- 
sations of  concrete  beings,  his  kings  and  councillors, 
huntsmen  and  enanos,  buffoons  and  soldiers,  hesi- 
tate there  on  the  canvas  ere  they  step  from  their 
frames  with  something  of  the  weird  immobility  which 
De  Quincey  has  described  in  his  essay  “On  the  Knock- 
ing at  the  Gate  in  Macbeth.”  The  spectator  is  aware 
in  the  painting  of  Velasquez,  as  the  English  writer  was 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  271 


aware  in  the  great  scene  of  the  tragedy,  of  a mo- 
ment’s veil  between  the  petrifaction  of  a deathlike 
solitude  and  the  ringing  sounds  of  a world  thickly 
peopled.  No  painter  ever  surpassed  Velasquez  in 
this  poignancy  of  realism,  and  I am  inclined  to  say 
that  no  one  ever  equalled  him.  No  one,  at  any  rate, 
ever  presented  his  interpretation  of  nature  with  so 
little  of  subjective  annotation,  with  so  little  rhetoric 
of  technique.  The  Spaniard  was  content  if  he  set 
down  what  he  divined  in  the  man  before  him.  He 
divined  much,  a great  deal  more  than  would  have 
been  yielded  to  most  other  men,  yet  he  leaves  the 
King,  or  whoever  else  it  may  be,  to  make  his  own 
confession,  as  it  were,  to  the  interlocutor  of  posterity. 
And  the  confession,  so  far  as  it  can  be  so  on  canvas, 
is  complete.  Where  it  justifies  itself,  too,  where  it 
demonstrates  its  veracity,  is  in  never  telling  too  much. 
A false  note  is  never  struck.  A lesser  man  — the  Ri- 
bera, for  instance,  from  whom  he  may  have  imbibed 
some  of  his  early  ideas;  the  Rubens  with  whom  his 
name  is  to  be  coupled  only  with  the  utmost  care  — 
inevitably  pitches  the  key  too  high.  Velasquez  never 
rose  above  a certain  resonant,  judicious  chord,  a 
chord  which  grew  richer,  fuller,  and  mellower  as  he 
progressed,  but  never  passed  the  limits  of  harmony, 
taste,  and  nature. 

This  is  apparent  in  every  relation  of  his  art.  It  may 
be  observed  in  the  attitudes  and  actions  of  his  per- 
sonages, in  the  heroic  but  entirely  normal  lines  of 


272  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


his  horses,  which  are  as  interesting,  very  nearly,  as 
the  riders  bestriding  them.  It  is  proclaimed  in  the 
current  of  animation  which  pervades  “The  Surrender 
of  Breda,”  a picture  that  is  monumental,  commemora- 
tive, without  being  in  the  faintest  degree  “'built  up” 
or  conventional;  in  the  delightful,  intimate  grouping 
of  “Las  Meninas”;  in  the  spontaneity  of  “Las  Hi- 
landeras,”  which  in  the  beauty  of  its  design  seems  the 
invention  of  an  artist,  and  in  the  uninterrupted  music 
of  its  talk  and  work  carries  the  close  effect  of  a pho- 
tograph. Everywhere  there  is  freedom  from  any  hint 
of  mechanical  composition  exceeding  the  decorum  of 
life;  everywhere  there  are  revelations  of  nature  studied 
and  transferred  to  the  canvas  with  its  gait  still  quiv- 
ering. But  it  was  not  only  in  the  mysteries  of  mo- 
tion that  Velasquez  was  deeply  versed.  He  was  the 
first  of  the  Impressionists,  taking  the  epithet  in  its 
bearing  upon  problems  of  lighting.  The  illumina- 
tion of  his  pictures  was  one  of  the  most  pressing  ques- 
tions involved  in  the  unfolding  of  his  style.  In  his 
first  period,  wliich  was  characterized  by  a dry  and 
rather  Academic  style  of  draughtsmanship,  and  in 
which  his  color  sense  was  satisfied  with  tints  few 
and  subdued,  the  lighting  is  accomplished  by  means 
which,  though  not  mechanical  and  unduly  arbitrary, 
have  still  a certain  slightly  artificial  precision  about 
them.  The  light  and  shade  in  the  “Bacchus,”  so  far 
as  can  be  perceived  in  the  present  sad  condition  of 
the  canvas,  are  handled  obviously  as  parts  of  a pre- 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  273 


arranged  scheme.  In  “The  Forge  of  Vulcan,”  painted 
when  the  artist  was  about  thirty  years  old,  he  arrived 
at  the  point  of  transition  between  this  cautious  method 
of  his  early  manhood  and  the  authoritative  freedom 
of  his  prime.  With  the  “Vulcan”  he  began  the 
broadening  of  his  brushwork,  which  was  continued  to 
the  end,  making  his  execution  ever  more  free  and 
rapid,  his  touch  lighter,  and  at  the  same  time  more 
crisp  and  forcible;  and  parallel  with  this  develop- 
ment of  his  handling  grew  a richer  and  deeper  scheme 
of  color.  But  most  of  all  does  the  beauty  of  his  light- 
ing grow  more  in  the  likeness  of  the  beauty  of  nature. 
In  the  group  of  equestrian  portraits  belonging  to  his 
second  period,  in  “Las  Hilanderas”  and  “Las  Me- 
ninas,”  the  crowning  glories  of  the  third  style,  color 
and  design  are  brought  to  a high  degree  of  perfection, 
but  they  would  have  little  effect  were  not  the  pic- 
tures suffused  by  a light  so  natural  that  all  thought 
of  the  studio,  of  artistic  sophistication,  instantly  dis- 
appears. 

This  point  makes  a convenient  corollary  to  the 
summary  of  the  painter’s  three  periods,  which  might 
be  given  as  follows:  The  second  period,  typified  best 
by  “The  Surrender  of  Breda,”  the  equestrian  portraits, 
and  the  portraits  of  the  three  huntsmen,  is  differenti- 
ated by  a greater  flexibility  of  style  and  by  a height- 
ening of  color  from  the  earliest  period,  which  produced 
the  “Bacchus”  and  the  standing  portraits  of  Philip  IV 
and  his  brother  Don  Carlos.  In  the  third  period, 


274  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


that  of  “Las  Hilanderas,”  Velasquez  achieves  a subt- 
ler gradation  of  tone,  and  restricts  himself,  on  the 
whole,  to  a narrower  scale  of  color,  while  loosening 
more  than  ever  his  brushwork  and  drawing.  The 
development  of  his  lighting  is  from  first  to  last  in  a 
rising  scale. 

The  relapse  of  Velasquez  from  the  blues,  russets, 
and  carmines  of  his  “Prince  Balthasar  on  Horseback” 
to  a scheme  of  color  so  much  less  brilliant  in  “Las 
Meninas”  that  that  product  of  his  maturity  is,  in 
respect  to  warmth,  hardly  more  pronounced  than  his 
first  works,  does  not  by  any  means  lower  his  rank  as 
a colorist.  Velasquez  was  never  a colorist  in  the 
modern  sense  — never  a colorist  like  Monticelli,  Diaz, 
or  John  La  Farge  — loving  color  for  its  own  sake.  He 
had  instead  the  most  complete  command  of  any  artist 
who  ever  lived  over  that  part  of  a colorist’s  province 
which  is  signified  in  the  word  “value.”  He  under- 
stood the  relation  of  one  color  or  tone  to  another, 
the  relation  of  the  lowest  blue  to  the  highest,  of  the 
highest  white  to  the  lowest  red.  “Las  Meninas,” 
with  its  masses  of  silvery  neutral  tone,  its  simple 
blacks  and  whites,  with  a few  touches  of  green  and 
red  in  the  costumes,  is  not  merely  a masterpiece  of 
design,  perspective,  and  portraiture.  It  is,  without 
exaggeration,  the  most  perfect  study  of  color,  of 
values,  in  the  world.  The  opinion  is  freely  expressed, 
for  the  march  from  the  first  great  pictures  of  Velas- 
quez to  the  last  is  so  unswerving  and  in  such  a swell- 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  275 


ing  measure  that  the  superlative  degree  is  unavoid- 
able at  the  end.  Each  one  of  the  numerous  pictures 
in  the  Prado  contains  if  anything  a little  more  pleas- 
ure than  the  last.  Bacchus,  with  his  merry  compan- 
ions, drawn  from  a race  as  Spanish  as  his  own;  Apollo, 
standing  in  his  tawny  robe  beside  the  swarthy  Vul- 
can; the  young  prince  on  his  pony,  prancing  in  a 
landscape  as  fresh  and  as  lovely  as  though  painted 
yesterday;  Philip  himself,  at  half  a dozen  stages  of 
his  specious,  ill-starred  existence;  and  all  the  other 
figures  of  an  era  never  to  be  forgotten;  the  warriors 
of  “The  Surrender  of  Breda,”  and  the  peaceful 
women  of  “Las  Hilanderas”  — come  back  from  the 
past  wearing  an  aspect  that  can  never  fade,  for,  in 
so  far  as  vitality  is  concerned,  every  generation  will 
say,  as  this  one  must,  that  they  come  with  the  last 
accent  of  modernity. 

One  can  never  be  quite  certain  that  the  personal 
equation  is  not  affecting  one’s  judgments,  and  it  may 
be  an  old  and  deep  sympathy  for  the  haunting  beauty 
of  the  Italians  of  the  Renaissance  which  would  make 
it  impossible  for  me  to  enter  the  gallery  where  “Las 
Hilanderas”  hangs  without  going  first  to  certain 
Venetian  masterpieces  which  hang  in  other  rooms 
near  by.  Yet  I must  add  that  while  they  touch  the 
imagination  more  subtly,  more  passionately,  the 
impression  that  remains  upon  the  mind  in  the 
clearest,  sharpest  outlines  is  of  “Pablillos”;  it  is  of 
the  girl  winding  the  wool  in  the  foreground  of  “Las 


276  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


Hilanderas”;  it  is  of  the  haughty  irresolute  King;  or, 
most  unforgettable  of  all,  it  is  of  his  glorious  young 
son,  the  Prince  Balthasar,  linking  one’s  thoughts  by 
an  unmistakable  association  of  ideas  with  the  words 
of  Vernon  to  Hotspur: 

“ I saw  young  Harry  — with  his  beaver  on, 

His  cuisses  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  arm’d  — 

Rise  from  the  ground  like  feather’d  Mercury, 

And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat 
As  if  an  angel  dropp’d  down  from  the  clouds 
To  turn  and  wind  a fiery  Pegasus, 

And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship.” 

To  evoke  such  an  image,  and  with  such  rhythm  and 
felicity,  required  the  pen  of  a Shakespeare  or  the  brush 
of  a Velasquez. 


II 

THE  PRADO  REVISITED 

To  see  a foreign  country  for  the  first  time  is  surely 
one  of  the  great  sensations  of  life,  but  to  revisit  it, 
especially  after  a long  absence,  is  even  more  interest- 
ing, though  not  perhaps  so  exciting.  When  you  dis- 
cover Italy  — and  every  traveller  discovers  Italy  for 
himself  — it  is  next  to  impossible  to  co-ordinate  your 
impressions.  It  is  a world  in  itself  and  it  must  be 
explored  again  and  again,  in  the  light  of  devoted 
study,  before  its  treasures  are  seen  in  a really  man- 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  277 


ageable  perspective.  It  is  as  though  one  familiarized 
himself  little  by  little  with  the  contents  of  an  incred- 
ibly vast  museum.  In  other  lands  it  may  be  other 
things  that  matter,  things  having  nothing  to  do  with 
the  mere  mass  of  stuff  to  be  seen  but  with  the  genius 
of  a people.  The  fact  has  been  brought  home  to  me 
by  a return  to  Spain.  Some  sixteen  or  seventeen 
years  ago,  when  I visited  that  country  for  the  first 
time,  chance  took  me  through  its  southern  gateway. 
Nothing  could  be  more  delightful,  but  I have  since 
learned  that  if  you  want  to  plunge  straight  into  the 
spirit  of  Spanish  art  the  best  approach  is  from  the 
North,  and  it  is  best  made  with  some  swiftness  in  the 
heart  of  winter. 


I 

Spanish  art  is  grave,  austere,  the  fruit  of  a civiliza- 
tion which  was  dominated  by  a rigidly  formal  court 
and  penetrated  to  its  very  core  by  the  discipline  of 
the  Roman  Church  at  the  height  of  its  power.  There 
was  nothing  blithely  sensuous  about  it  in  the  heyday 
of  its  development.  Its  masters  were  no  light-hearted 
adventurers,  pursuing  beauty  for  its  own  sake,  but 
sober  craftsmen,  obediently  filling  the  orders  of  royal 
and  clerical  patrons.  Moreover,  climatic  and  social 
conditions  and  certain  harsh  racial  traits  played  into 
the  hands  of  Church  and  State.  Now  one  is  scarcely 
put  into  the  mood  to  realize  the  full  significance  of  all 


278  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


this  by  summer  wanderings  in  Andalusia.  When  I 
went  slowly  up  to  Madrid,  after  indolent  days  in  the 
Alhambra  and  in  towns  like  Cadiz  and  Seville,  I was 
quite  ready  to  believe  forever  in  the  “sunny  Spain” 
of  countless  books  of  travel,  and  I was  the  less  pre- 
pared to  readjust  my  point  of  view  because  I had  been 
absorbed  in  the  suave  traditions  of  Italian  art.  Span- 
ish pictures  seen  in  England  and  in  the  various  gal- 
leries of  Europe  had  not  quite  prepared  me  for  the 
revelations  of  the  Prado,  where  alone  the  art  of  the 
country  is  to  be  studied  at  full  length.  My  first  in- 
timation of  the  atmosphere  I was  to  find  there  came 
in  the  course  of  a long  ride  by  diligence  to  Jaen.  I 
began  then  to  taste  the  quality  of  the  Spanish  land- 
scape in  its  dustier,  stonier  aspects,  to  forget  orange- 
trees  and  gypsy  dancers  in  the  presence  of  barren 
hillsides  and  sombre,  brown-cloaked  shepherds,  stand- 
ing lonely  against  the  sky.  Later,  as  I came  to  see 
more  of  Spain,  I understood  that  when  she  is  barest 
and  bleakest  she  is  most  herself,  most  the  Spain  of 
Velasquez.  If  there  is  one  spot  on  which  more  than 
on  any  other  in  the  whole  country  you  get  the  key 
to  the  problem  it  is  beneath  the  cold  walls  of  the 
Escorial,  on  a day  of  drifting  mist  or  when  the  wind 
comes  down  like  a knife  from  the  Guadarrama.  En- 
ter the  grimly  solemn  church  and  look  up  at  the 
royal  worshippers  on  either  side,  kneeling  in  bronze 
with  their  faces  turned  to  the  high  altar.  The  soul 
of  Spain  is  there. 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  279 


It  took  time  to  find  it  out,  but  travelling  in  win- 
ter, down  to  Madrid  from  San  Sebastian,  I seemed 
hardly  to  have  crossed  the  threshold  before  the  Span- 
ish characteristics  which  had  once  been  so  elusive 
fairly  leaped  to  the  eye.  You  recognize  them  as  the 
fertile  valleys  give  way  to  rock-strewn  plains,  and 
you  pass  widely  scattered  farms  and  huddled  ham- 
lets, the  latter  shutting  all  their  doors  and  windows 
in  the  winter  twilight,  and  seeming,  beneath  the  in- 
evitable church  tower,  as  though  in  a deathlike  sleep. 
The  sky  is  intensely  blue,  and,  with  a stupendous 
round  moon  floating  in  it,  it  is  ineffably  cold.  Trains 
are  none  too  rapid  in  Spain,  and  you  get  a good  sense 
of  the  country  from  your  car  window.  It  looks  a 
ghostly  and  forbidding  land.  Some  stretches  of  it, 
past  which  you  glide  in  an  unearthly  light,  might  be 
abandoned  Golgothas,  scenes  of  unbearable  tragedy. 
When  you  have  reached  Segovia  in  the  night  and 
have  driven  to  your  hotel  under  the  old  Roman  aque- 
duct you  have  been  initiated  into  Spanish  art.  The 
initiation  continues  next  day,  when  the  cold  is  still 
terrific,  but  when  a blazing  sun  makes  the  weather 
endurable,  and,  besides,  makes  the  prospect  clear  for 
miles  around.  On  a spur  of  the  hill  on  which  the 
town  is  built  there  stands  the  ancient  Alcazar,  and  on 
the  terrace  at  its  base  there  are  stone  benches  where 
one  may  sit  and  gaze  over  the  country.  It  is  all 
bare  and  brown,  with  stone  walls  marking  out  many 
of  the  fields,  the  houses  lying  far  apart,  flat  and  yel- 


28q  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


low  structures,  with  their  red  tiled  roofs  faded  to  a 
soft  rose,  and  mile  on  mile  of  high-road  travelling 
snakily  past  them  toward  the  church-crowned  village 
on  a distant  hill.  It  is  a strange  sight,  and  that  in  it 
which  most  touches  the  imagination  is  its  calm  and 
irresistible  assertion  of  an  ancient,  unchanged  char- 
acter. Revery  at  Segovia  may  be  colored  by  all 
manner  of  rich  and  romantic  associations  drawn  from 
innumerable  chapters  of  history,  but  at  bottom  the 
one  motive  which  persists  is  that  which  cries  aloud 
from  the  immemorial  countryside,  the  hardness  and 
the  patience,  the  melancholy  and  the  courage,  which 
have  gone  to  the  making  of  the  Spanish  genius. 

II 

It  is  good  to  get  back  to  the  Prado.  There  is  no 
other  museum  quite  like  it  in  the  world.  For  one 
thing  it  has  been  in  exceptionally  safe  hands.  The 
craze  for  picture  cleaning  which  has  done  so  much 
harm  in  so  many  European  galleries  has  left  Madrid 
untouched.  There  are  paintings  in  Vienna  and  Ber- 
lin which  look  as  though  they  had  had  their  faces 
washed  once  a week  for  years;  they  shine  with  an 
abhorrent  “spruceness.”  The  masterpieces  of  the 
Prado  have  had  their  feelings  respected.  As  an  Amer- 
ican artist  once  said  to  me,  “they  have  enjoyed  a 
long  and  beautiful  neglect.”  Discretion  and  absten- 
tion were  the  watchwords  of  old  Senor  Madrazo,  the 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  281 


former  director.  He  used  to  let  me  come  into  his 
studio  to  see  Titian’s  great  equestrian  portrait  of 
Charles  V,  which  he  had  by  him  on  an  easel  while 
it  was  undergoing  some  repairs  to  its  back,  and  I 
never  heard  from  him  or  from  any  of  the  Spanish 
artists  with  whom  I used  to  foregather  that  “resto- 
ration” was  a popular  amusement  in  Madrid.  Senor 
Villegas,  the  present  director,  uses  the  same  prudence. 
He  lets  the  pictures  in  the  Prado  alone.  He  is  con- 
servative, too,  about  their  arrangement.  I found  that 
some  paintings  had  changed  their  places,  but  in  the 
main  the  grouping  was  much  as  I had  known  it  so 
many  years  before. 

There  are  modern  painters  who  are  prone  to  in- 
sist that  Velasquez  is  the  sole  type  of  perfection  in 
art.  It  is  a false  view  to  take,  but  it  is  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  to  understand  how  it  has  got  into 
vogue.  There  is  something  about  Velasquez  which 
momentarily  persuades  you  that  nothing  else  in  the 
history  of  painting  quite  matters,  and  I suppose  it 
is  the  easier  to  surrender  to  this  idea  because  the 
master  is  so  simple,  so  straightforward  in  his  way  of 
taking  you  captive.  The  American  artist  I have 
just  cited  told  me  how  his  wife  had  gone  for  her  first 
visit  to  the  Prado,  and  after  an  hour  or  two  with 
Velasquez  had  come  back  and  tried  to  explain  just 
how  he  had  struck  a mind  making  no  pretence  to 
artistic  experience.  “I  think,”  she  said,  “it’s  the 
way  he  makes  a leg  look  like  a leg.”  That  saying  is 


282  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


worth  many  a page  of  overwrought  analysis.  The 
late  John  La  Farge,  who  knew  the  mysteries  of  paint- 
ing if  ever  a man  knew  them,  has  a passage  on  “Las 
Menlnas”  in  his  “One  Hundred  Masterpieces”  which 
shows  the  importance  which  he,  too,  gave  to  the 
painter’s  sheer  truth.  “Its  workmanship  and  all  that 
side  of  painting  which  copies  nature  for  illusion,”  he 
says,  “has  reached  here  the  highest  level  known;  not 
attempting  to  deceive  by  special  points  of  accuracy, 
but  so  that  each  accuracy  depends  upon  the  others  and 
that  the  whole  has  that  impression  of  nature  which 
does  not  surprise  us,  which  does  not  look  clever  or 
particularly  wonderful  or  difficult  to  understand.” 
That  is  one  reason  why  you  are  tempted  to  accept 
unquestioned  his  pre-eminence,  his  isolation.  These 
tremendous  works  of  his  seem  such  entirely  natural 
affairs,  to  have  been  produced  with  so  artless  a ges- 
ture, in  a manner  so  effortless  and  so  magnificently 
right.  To  doubt  the  eternal  efficacy  of  the  hypothe- 
sis on  which  Velasquez  labored  seems  like  doubting 
the  multiplication  table.  If  two  and  two  make  four 
then  this  man’s  way  of  painting  is  the  whole  art  of 
painting.  It  is  with  a kind  of  wrench  that  you  have 
to  remind  yourself  that  “there  are  other  dreams.” 
But  what  a very  different  thing  from  all  the  math- 
ematical certainties  of  the  academies  is  the  method 
of  Velasquez!  In  his  early  period,  the  period  of  the 
bodegones,  those  interiors  in  which  he  portrayed  the 
humbler  folk  of  Seville,  you  can  track  his  genius 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  283 


through  what  may  be  adequately  enough  described 
as  clear  and  steady  drawing,  smooth  brushwork,  pure 
color,  and  an  obviously  artificial  play  of  light  and 
shade.  But  when  Velasquez  comes  to  maturity,  and, 
to  use  Whistler’s  happy  phrase,  dips  his  brush  in 
light  and  air,  you  lose  the  last  clew  to  his  magic. 
And  all  the  time  he  seems  to  be  reminding  you,  in 
his  calm,  half-disdainful  way,  that  he  is  using  no 
magic  at  all,  that  these  glorious  achievements  of  his 
are  based  upon  the  simplest  possible  craft,  that  the 
magic,  if  it  is  there,  is  all  in  the  day’s  work.  It  is 
hopeless  to  interrogate  him,  yet  in  another  way  it  is 
very  much  worth  while  to  go  over  his  canvases  inch 
by  inch.  As  you  look  the  marvel  grows.  The  paint 
is  dashed  on  from  a fluid  brush  in  a quick,  steno- 
graphic sort  of  way,  a touch  here  and  a touch  there, 
in  suggestion  rather  than  literal  notation.  That  much 
any  eye  can  gather.  But  what  are  you  to  say  of  the 
synthetic  vision  determining  the  exact  relation  of 
each  one  of  those  touches  to  the  others?  What  are 
you  to  say  of  the  creative  power  which  takes  all  this 
stuff  of  form  and  color,  light  and  air,  and  fuses  it 
into  a living  whole  of  beauty?  I have  gone  day  after 
day,  for  weeks  on  end,  to  the  paintings  of  Velasquez 
and  tried  to  dissect  their  technical  traits.  There  are 
masters  of  infinitely  more  subtle  characteristics  who 
make  a task  of  the  sort  nothing  like  so  obscure.  And 
life,  in  his  case,  is  always  creeping  in  to  make  the 
search  more  difficult.  I used  to  study  the  marvellous 


284  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


“Innocent  X”  at  Rome,  and  oscillate  between  two 
totally  different  hypotheses  as  to  the  manner  in  which 
the  paint  had  been  laid  on.  While  I balanced  the 
two  the  eyes  of  the  old  Pope  would  take  hold  of  me, 
and  I would  forget  the  spell  of  art  for  that  of  human- 
ity. It  is  so  in  that  miraculous  room  in  the  Prado. 
You  are  always  turning  from  Velasquez  to  the  men 
and  women  he  painted,  to  the  leg  that  looks  like  a leg. 

It  is  there,  I think,  that  he  allies  himself  with  the 
greatest  of  the  great  painters,  and  it  is  there,  too, 
that  he  rebukes  the  narrow-mindedness  of  those  very 
disciples  of  his  who  in  our  modern  times  would  turn 
the  sentient,  breathing  world  into  an  affair  of  “still 
life”  and  make  a dexterous  turn  of  the  brush  the  end 
and  aim  of  art.  If  there  is  one  thing  more  than  an- 
other which  Velasquez  makes  you  feel  it  is  that  he 
was  passionately  interested  in  the  substance  of  his 
art.  His  portraits  were  not  achieved  through  mere 
sleight  of  hand.  There  is  thought  in  them  and  there 
is,  above  all,  a profound  sympathy.  Those  were  wise 
words  of  La  Farge’s  about  the  workmanship  “which 
does  not  look  clever  or  particularly  wonderful  or  dif- 
ficult to  understand.”  It  is  just  the  kind  of  work- 
manship to  subject  itself  to  a high  purpose,  to  serve 
as  a means  of  expression.  And  you  soon  enough  dis- 
cover, by  the  same  token,  that  Velasquez  is  not,  after 
all,  “the  whole  show.”  Momentarily,  I repeat,  you 
are  inclined  to  think  he  is.  Never  shall  I forget  the 
shock  that  it  was  to  come  to  the  Prado  after  several 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  285 


summers  in  Italian  galleries.  For  a little  while  I saw 
the  whole  Renaissance  awry,  with  only  Velasquez 
playing  the  technical  game  as  it  ought  to  be  played. 
But  these  misapprehensions  have  a way  of  righting 
themselves.  One  learns,  and  nowhere  better  than  at 
the  feet  of  Velasquez,  that  the  painter  cannot  live 
by  technique  alone;  and  it  is  but  a step  from  this  fun- 
damental truth  to  the  one  making  it  clear  that  there 
are  all  kinds  of  technique,  all  kinds  of  genius.  The 
Prado  peculiarly  enforces  that  point,  for  although 
Velasquez  holds  the  centre  of  the  stage  he  is  sur- 
rounded by  Titian,  Veronese,  Rubens,  Van  Dyke, 
Moro,  the  early  Netherlandish  painters  and  divers 
other  masters,  all  at  their  best.  Nothing  could  be 
more  profitable  than  to  turn  from  him  to  them,  for 
to  do  so  is  to  be  reminded  of  some  of  the  other  things 
that  count  in  art,  things  of  imagination,  of  drama,  of 
religion,  that  Velasquez  knew  nothing  about. 

Coming  back  to  him  with  these  convictions,  I won- 
dered what  the  result  would  be,  how  he  would  look 
after  all  those  years,  and  especially  what  his  relation 
to  the  other  “kinds”  would  be.  What  surprised  me 
was  to  find  that  there  were  no  surprises,  that  I could 
not  see  him  differently,  that  I missed  nothing  and 
that  nothing  had  been  added,  save,  for  me,  a deeper 
sense  of  his  serene  and  limpid  truth.  There  were 
no  depths  which  had  become  clearer,  there  were  no 
mysteries,  there  was  just  the  candid,  perfect  painter, 
flinging  no  dust  in  one’s  eyes,  but  doing  his  work 


286  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


like  a gentleman.  Of  one  thing  I am  sure:  He  is 
one  of  the  greatest  tonic  forces  in  painting.  To  go 
back  to  him  is  to  go  back  to  an  invigorating  spring. 

Ill 

There  is  so  much  else  to  go  back  to  in  the  Prado, 
but  I have  no  intention  of  rehearsing  an  old  story. 
It  would  be  tempting  to  make  a dozen  excursions 
through  the  galleries — to  talk,  for  example,  about  a 
picture  like  the  wonderful  little  landscape  by  Goya 
which  hangs  near  the  entrance,  a glittering  view  of 
the  river,  with  multitudes  of  people  in  the  foreground 
and  the  walls  of  Madrid  beyond.  The  story  of  Goya’s 
art  is  half  untold  without  the  introduction  of  a deli- 
cate, blond  landscape  like  this.  But  there  is  only 
one  painter  after  Velasquez  of  whom  I would  speak 
in  any  detail  and  that  is  Mazo,  his  pupil.  Mazo  is 
the  man  to  whom  the  late  Aureliano  de  Beruete,  the 
great  authority  on  Velasquez,  thought  it  necessary  to 
give  a considerable  number  of  paintings  that  had  pre- 
viously been  counted  among  the  authentic  works  of 
the  master.  The  Spanish  critic  made  good  most  of 
his  attributions,  but  there  were  one  or  two  which 
were  always  hard  to  accept.  The  “Admiral  Pulido 
Pareja,”  of  the  National  Gallery,  and  the  “Lady 
with  a Mantilla,”  which  the  Duke  of  Devonshire 
lent  to  the  famous  exhibition  at  the  Guildhall  in  1901, 
were  long  unchallenged  as  the  works  of  Velasquez. 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  28 7 


Beruete  preferred  to  give  them  both  to  Mazo,  and 
his  son,  in  his  valuable  book  on  “The  School  of  Ma- 
drid,” takes  the  same  view.  That  neither  picture 
illustrates  the  master’s  art  in  its  finest  estate  may 
readily  be  admitted.  But  for  my  own  part  I cling 
to  both  portraits,  and  to  the  “Lady  with  a Man- 
tilla” even  more  than  to  the  other. 

It  seemed  interesting  on  revisiting  the  Prado  to 
overhaul  Mazo  with  particular  care,  as  I had  over- 
hauled him  elsewhere,  and  to  see  if  I could  what  it 
was  that  justified  the  critic’s  appraisal  of  him  at  so 
high  a value.  The  man  who  was  clever  enough  for  a 
quantity  of  his  paintings  to  be  taken  for  works  by 
Velasquez  must  certainly  have  been  diabolically  clever. 
For  the  life  of  me  I could  not  see  that  the  Mazos  in 
the  Prado  lent  any  aid  to  Beruete’s  contention.  He 
figures  there,  it  is  true,  chiefly  as  a landscapist,  and 
in  the  upper  room  where  a number  of  his  scenes  are 
gathered  together  he  makes  a decidedly  good  impres- 
sion. But  come  to  him  fresh  from  Velasquez,  go  to 
and  fro  between  the  two  day  after  day,  and  you  are 
driven  to  the  conclusion  that  the  painter  of  the  land- 
scapes never  had  it  in  him  to  paint  the  “Admiral” 
or  that  adorable  “Lady  with  the  Mantilla.”  If  Ve- 
lasquez did  not  paint  them  then  they  were  done  by 
some  one  worthier  of  him  than  Mazo.  There  is  a 
famous  “View  of  Saragossa”  in  the  Prado,  in  which 
the  town  and  the  river  were  painted  by  the  pupil, 
while  Velasquez  did  the  figures  in  the  foreground. 


288  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


You  have  only  to  weigh  the  two  parts  of  the  picture, 
one  against  the  other,  to  see  the  gulf  dividing  the 
men  who  made  them.  It  is  all  in  the  touch,  the  in- 
describable, autographic,  vitalizing  touch.  It  is  eas- 
ier, it  seems  to  me,  to  believe  that  Velasquez  some- 
times nodded  and  produced  a painting  below  his 
average  than  to  believe  every  such  painting  to  be 
necessarily  by  Mazo.  Even  the  second-best  of  the 
master  was  too  good  for  the  man. 


Ill 

VELASQUEZ  AT  THE  HISPANIC  MUSEUM 

There  is  a miniature  Prado  in  New  York.  It  is 
called  the  Hispanic  Museum.  The  compact  little 
building  of  that  institution  was  overrun  by  thousands 
of  visitors  during  the  special  exhibitions  made  there 
of  the  works  of  Sorolla  and  Zuloaga;  but  then  every- 
thing else  was  necessarily  hidden  away.  I dare  say 
that  comparatively  few  people  in  the  city  are  aware 
of  the  extraordinary  collection  of  Spanish  pictures 
which  is  hung  in  the  upper  gallery,  when  this 
museum  is  given  over  to  its  regular  functions,  to 
the  still  air  of  delightful  studies.  The  place  is  full 
of  precious  books  and  manuscripts,  of  magnificent 
pieces  of  old  Hispano-Moresque  pottery,  of  objects 
in  wrought  metal,  and  other  souvenirs  of  a great  his- 
toric past.  Forming  a kind  of  crown  to  the  whole 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  289 


is  the  collection  of  pictures  ranging  from  the  Primi- 
tives down  to  Goya,  and  including  valuable  examples 
of  Murillo,  El  Greco  and  other  masters,  not  forget- 
ting Moro’s  superb  portrait  of  the  Duke  of  Alba. 
Set  like  jewels  in  the  mass  are  three  portraits  by 
Velasquez,  and,  as  at  Madrid,  they  dominate  their 
surroundings.  That  is  why  I call  the  Hispanic  Mu- 
seum a miniature  Prado. 

The  chief  of  these  three  paintings  is  the  famous 
full-length  of  the  Count-Duke  of  Olivares,  which  was 
formerly  at  Dorchester  House,  in  London,  the  prop- 
erty of  Major  Holford.  It  was  purchased,  it  is  said, 
for  an  “almost  fabulous  sum,”  by  Mrs.  C.  P.  Hunt- 
ington, and  presented  by  her  to  the  Hispanic  Museum 
in  memory  of  her  husband.  It  is  the  most  revealing 
of  the  portraits  painted  by  Velasquez  of  King  Philip’s 
ill-omened  minister.  The  equestrian  portrait  at  Ma- 
drid, painted  at  a later  date  and  perhaps  more  gen- 
erally known,  is  technically  a glorious  thing,  but,  as 
Beruete  says,  “the  personage  represented  was  never 
under  fire,”  and  as  a study  of  character  this  is  ac- 
cordingly, if  not  precisely  disingenuous,  at  all  events 
a work  more  courtly  than  exact.  The  early  full-length 
prefigures  something  of  that  psychological  penetra- 
tion which  you  observe,  for  example,  in  the  wonder- 
ful “Don  Diego  del  Corral  y Arellano,”  which  in 
certain  traits  it  resembles.  Olivares  in  this  canvas 
is  not  quite  so  much  “on  parade”  as  in  the  equestrian 
portrait,  and  though  Velasquez  does  not  catch  him 


290  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  arid  Elsewhere 

absolutely  unmasked  he  certainly  seems  to  have  found 
him  in  more  of  his  characteristic  mood.  The  sleek 
nature  of  the  man  is  mercilessly  disclosed. 

In  the  pages  of  the  late  Martin  Hume,  better,  per- 
haps, than  anywhere  else,  the  reader  may  trace  the 
true  character  of  this  courtier,  so  cruelly  inimical  to 
the  interests  of  his  master.  Like  many  obstinate 
people,  Philip  could  be  craftily  led,  and  Olivares  was 
the  last  statesman  in  the  world  to  have  had  the  post 
of  authority  at  Philip’s  vacillating  elbow.  States- 
manship, indeed,  of  any  serious  calibre,  he  plenti- 
fully lacked.  His  cue  was  deftly  to  play  on  the  least 
creditable  impulses  of  the  King,  to  minister  to  his 
levities,  and,  in  a word,  to  bemuse  Philip  out  of  any 
proper  sense  of  what  really  needed  to  be  done  for 
the  welfare  of  Ms  dominions.  Even  if  Major  Hume 
had  not  given  us  chapter  and  verse  for  this  hypothe- 
sis, and  if  no  other  historians  had  touched  upon  the 
baseness  of  Olivares,  could  it  not  all  be  divined  from 
this  marvellous  portrait?  It  is  marvellous  not  only 
as  it  mirrors  a sinister  personality,  but  as  it  illus- 
trates the  habit  of  a great  painter,  not  yet  risen  to 
his  full  stature,  but  already  the  unmistakable  pos- 
sessor of  genius.  There  is  genius  in  the  simple  and 
solid  placing  of  the  figure,  and  then  you  see  it  every- 
where manifested,  in  the  beautiful  modelling  of  the 
head  and  hands,  in  the  definition  of  the  draperies  — ■ 
so  fluid  and  yet  so  precise  — and  in  the  perfect  so- 
briety, the  pure  glow,  the  incomparable  distinction, 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  291 


of  the  tone.  The  color  scheme,  dark  almost  to  black- 
ness in  the  dress  of  the  count-duke,  but  given  a greater 
warmth  and  sonority  in  the  red  cloth  that  covers 
the  table,  makes  what  might  fairly  be  described  as 
a massive  chord,  but  Velasquez,  be  he  never  so  force- 
ful, is  at  the  same  moment  exquisitely  suave.  In  his 
leading  masses  of  color,  as  in  the  neutral  background, 
he  is  the  master  of  pure  transparent  tone,  so  fine,  so 
softly  luminous,  that  while  you  are  seized  by  the 
strength  of  the  portrait  you  are  gently  beguiled  by 
its  sheer  charm.  To  see  the  master  at  full  length 
the  student  must  go  to  Spain,  but  if  that  is  not  pos- 
sible he  may  find  ample  consolation  in  New  York. 
In  this  portrait  he  may  draw  near  to  the  secret  of 
Velasquez  and  drink  deep  of  the  beauty  of  his  work. 

Moreover,  it  is  not  in  the  “ Olivares  ” alone  that  he 
may  find  these  sensations  of  pleasure  and  this  in- 
struction. Near  at  hand  hang  two  smaller  portraits, 
neither  of  them  of  equal  “importance,”  as  that  word 
is  employed  in  the  jargon  of  the  day,  but  both  bril- 
liantly characteristic  examples.  One  is  the  portrait 
supposed  to  be  of  that  Cardinal  Pamphili  who,  Ber- 
uete  tells  us,  on  the  authority  of  M.  Niccolle,  resigned 
his  high  state  in  the  Church  in  order  to  marry.  It  is 
more  freely  painted  than  the  “Olivares,”  and  the 
reds,  based  on  a higher  key  than  those  in  the  latter 
portrait,  have  a rosier,  sweeter  glow.  The  loose  but 
eloquent  brushwork  would  by  itself  declare  the  au- 
thenticity of  the  piece.  The  last  member  of  the  trio 


292  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


is  a bewitching  “ Portrait  of  a Girl,”  which  I recall 
seeing  in  the  memorable  exhibition  at  the  Guildhall 
some  t-en  or  twelve  years  ago,  and  have  never  been 
able  to  forget,  its  fragrant  character  is  so  clearly  pro- 
claimed. Velasquez  never  painted  a more  delicately 
haunting  'type  than  this  little  flower  of  Spanish  child- 
hood. Beruete  has  this  interesting  note  on  the  prob- 
able sitter: 

The  model  is  not  one  of  the  princesses  of  the  House  of 
Austria,  who  are  of  such  a different  type;  on  the  other 
hand,  one  cannot  help  noticing  its  resemblance  to  some 
of  the  grandchildren  of  Velasquez  to  be  seen  in  the  pic- 
ture at  Vienna,  “The  Family  of  Mazo,”  which  leads  me 
to  believe  that  the  child  is  probably  the  same  as  the  one 
depicted  standing  in  this  picture,  who  appears  to  be  be- 
tween fourteen  and  sixteen  years  of  age.  If,  therefore, 
this  is  the  case,  the  date  of  the  work  would  be  about 
1642  to  1643,  at  which  time  the  eldest  daughter  of  Mazo 
and  Francisca  Velasquez  would  be  about  seven  or  eight 
years  old,  which  is  the  age  at  which  she  is  represented. 
If  we  take  into  account  the  characteristics  and  technique  of 
the  work,  this  is  the  date  at  which  this  picture  was  painted. 

The  scholarly  critic’s  supposition  is  further  borne 
out  by  the  inner  significance  of  the  portrait.  It  is 
indubitably  the  memorial  of  a domestic  sentiment, 
the  unaffected  portrait  of  a merely  human  type. 
When  Velasquez  painted  a young  Infanta  of  Spain 
he  performed  prodigies  of  art,  and  on  a fall  of  lace 
over  rose-colored  silk,  for  example,  would  wreak  such 
technical  magic  as  holds  the  connoisseur  of  mere 
painting  to  this  day  enchanted.  But  the  face  of  his 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  293 


little  princess,  set  in  the  mould  of  Spanish  court  eti- 
quette, probably  the  most  rigid  formula  ever  known 
in  the  history  of  manners,  would  somehow  approxi- 
mate to  the  chill  immobility  of  a waxen  doll.  The 
child  in  this  portrait  is  an  individuality,  an  art- 
less, happy  little  girl,  known  intimately  and  loved. 
Through  the  ennobling  touch  of  the  master’s  brush 
she  bears  herself  composedly  and  bravely  in  the  com- 
pany of  his  wily  courtier  and  his  very  mundane 
churchman.  The  three  portraits  together  make  an 
invaluable  boon  for  the  lover  and  student  of  Velas- 
quez. Decidedly,  the  searcher  after  artistic  inspi- 
ration will  henceforth  count  the  Hispanic  Museum 
among  the  shrines  of  great  paintings. 


IV 

THE  ROKEBY  VENUS 

Doubts  vainly  cast  upon  the  authenticity  of  a great 
picture  ordinarily  receive  at  the  hands  of  the  historian 
no  more  consideration  than  is  implied  in  the  scant 
courtesy  of  a brief  footnote.  Yet  there  are  occasions 
on  which  it  seems  legitimate  to  record  at  greater 
length  some  particularly  salient  instance  of  critical 
error.  It  is  perhaps  worth  while  to  set  down  here 
the  remarkable  case  of  Mr.  James  Greig  and  the 
“Venus  with  the  Mirror,”  better  known  as  the 
Rokeby  Venus.  It  was  in  the  early  summer  of  1910 


294  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


that  cable  despatches  from  London  reported  how  Mr. 
Greig,  the  art  critic  of  The  Morning  Post , had  at- 
tempted circumstantially  to  deprive  Velasquez  of  the 
credit  of  having  painted  the  renowned  nude  in  the 
National  Gallery.  Twice  previously  he  had  demon- 
strated his  acuteness  in  penetrating  to  the  source  of 
an  old  picture.  Upon  a painting  ascribed  to  Rem- 
brandt in  one  of  the  winter  exhibitions  at  Burling- 
ton House  he  had  discovered  the  signature  of  Ferdi- 
nand Bol,  and  he  had  shown  that  a work  in  the  Sal- 
ting Collection,  given  to  Pieter  de  Hoogh,  was  really 
signed  by  Samuel  van  Hoogstraeten.  Since  these 
disclosures  of  his  had  been  accepted  as  conclusive  it 
was  not  unnatural  to  pay  him  some  attention  when 
he  advanced  the  hypothesis  that  the  “Venus,”  long 
believed  to  be  by  Velasquez,  bore  the  cipher  of  Juan 
Bautista  Del  Mazo,  the  son-in-law  of  the  court 
painter  of  Philip  IV.  His  claim  was  that  he  had 
found  in  the  lower  left-hand  corner  of  the  picture, 
about  twelve  inches  under  the  left  foot  of  the  recli- 
ning figure,  a signature  which,  as  he  reproduced  it  in 
The  Morning  Post,  clearly  revealed  only  a “B”  and 
an  “M.”  The  cipher  suggested  rather  than  actually 
exhibited  the  full  initials  of  Mazo.  Against  this  claim 
Sir  Charles  Holroyd,  the  director  of  the  National  Gal- 
lery (himself  an  artist),  set  the  fact  that  after  ta- 
king off  the  glass  he  had  obtained  a certificate  from 
eight  experts  that  there  was  no  signature  visible. 
Nevertheless  the  affair  made  a prodigious  sensation, 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  295 


promoting  floods  of  argument  in  the  press  every- 
where, and  so  it  seems,  as  I have  said,  interesting  to 
return  to  the  subject  and  to  examine  into  the  history 
and  character  of  the  picture. 

It  is  related  by  Beruete  to  the  period  following 
the  second  of  the  painter’s  two  Italian  journeys,  the 
period  of  the  “Mercury  and  Argos,”  the  “Mars,” 
and  several  other  mythological  subjects  produced 
toward  the  end  of  his  career.  These  included  a 
“Psyche  and  Cupid,”  an  “Apollo  and  Marsyas”  and 
a “Venus  and  Adonis,”  which  adorned  the  Hall  of 
Mirrors  in  the  Alcazar  at  Madrid  and  were  destroyed 
by  fire  in  1734.  Traversing  the  history  of  the  “Venus 
with  the  Mirror,”  Beruete  says: 

The  first  mention  made  of  it  is  by  Don  Antonio  Ponz 
in  his  “Viaje  de  Espana,”  published  in  1776,  wherein  he 
describes  the  paintings  in  the  house  of  the  Duke  of  Alba. 
Don  Pedro  de  Madrazo  in  an  article  published  in  the 
“Ilustracion  Espanola  y Americana,”  8th  November,  1874, 
presumes  that  “Venus  with  the  Mirror”  is  none  other 
than  “Psiquis  y Cupido,”  which  appears  in  the  inven- 
tory of  the  year  1686  of  the  Royal  Alcazar,  and  adds 
that,  owing  to  the  fire  in  the  Alcazar  in  1734,  it  must 
have  been  removed  to  the  house  of  the  Duke  of  Alba. 
Professor  Justi,  and  Curtis,  in  agreement  with  Madrazo, 
ascribed  the  same  origin  to  the  picture  which  I admitted 
as  being  correct  in  the  French  edition  of  my  book. 

Recently  I have  been  able  to  determine  the  true  origin, 
and  clear  up  the  confusion  existing  between  this  picture 
and  that  of  “Psiquis  y Cupido,”  the  subject  and  meas- 
urement of  which  are  different  from  those  of  the  “Venus 
with  the  Mirror.”  The  latter  figures  in  the  inventories  of 


296  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


the  collections  of  Don  Gaspar  Mendez  de  Haro,  son  of 
the  famous  Don  Luis  Mendez  de  Haro,  Marquis  of  Car- 
pio  and  Heliche,  minister  and  favorite  of  Philip  IV  from 
the  time  of  the  fall  of  his  uncle,  the  Conde-Duque  de 
Olivares  in  1643.  The  inventories  were  made,  one  in 
Rome  in  1682,  and  another  in  Naples  in  1688.  In  these 
inventories  there  appears  the  picture  of  the  “Venus” 
mentioned  in  the  following  terms,  “A  life-size  Venus,  re- 
clining nude  and  a child  holding  a mirror  in  which  she 
sees  herself.  The  picture  of  the  Venus  is  an  original  of 
Don  Diego  Velasquez.”  The  picture  of  the  Venus  there- 
fore did  not  belong  to  the  Alcazar  Palace  as  Madrazo 
thought  but  to  the  Mendez  de  Haro  family. 

By  the  marriage  of  Dona  Catalina  de  Haro  y Guzman, 
daughter  of  Don  Gaspar,  with  the  Duke  of  Alba,  in  1688, 
the  property  of  the  Haro  family  reverted  to  the  House  of 
Alba,  and  with  it  the  picture  of  the  Venus  of  Velasquez. 
In  1802,  at  the  death  of  the  renowned  Duchess  of  Alba, 
whose  portrait  was  so  often  painted  by  Goya,  at  the 
court  of  Charles  IV,  by  testamentary  disposition  of  this 
lady  part  of  her  property  was  bequeathed  to  personal 
friends,  who  were  therefore  not  her  legitimate  heirs.  This 
brought  about  a lawsuit  at  the  instance  of  the  successor 
to  the  title  and  estate  of  the  House  of  Alba,  who  was  the 
Duke  of  Berwick,  Liria,  and  Jerica,  and  during  the  law- 
suit the  King,  Charles  IV,  issued  an  order  that  the  three 
pictures  in  question  should  be  sold  to  his  prime  minister 
and  favorite  Don  Manuel  Godoy,  Principe  de  la  Paz. 
These  three  pictures  were  “The  Madonna  of  the  House 
of  Alba,”  by  Raphael,  “The  School  of  Love,”  by  Cor- 
reggio, and  the  “Venus  with  the  Mirror.” 

After  the  fall  of  the  Principe  de  la  Paz  in  1808,  the 
Venus  was  sold  to  Mr.  Wallis,  the  agent  of  the  well- 
known  dealer  in  pictures,  Mr.  Buchanan,  in  1813,  and  on 
the  advice  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  it  was  bought  from 
Mr.  Buchanan  by  Mr.  Morritt  for  £500.  From  that  time 
up  till  October,  1905,  this  picture  has  held  the  place  of 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  297 


honor  in  Rokeby  Park  [the  home  of  Mr.  Morritt],  with 
the  exception  of  the  two  occasions  on  which  it  has  been 
exhibited  to  the  public,  in  1857,  and  in  Burlington  House 
in  1890  at  the  exhibition  of  Old  Masters. 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  briefly  told.  A few  years 
ago  it  was  “in  the  air”  that  the  picture  might  be 
bought,  and  the  present  writer,  by  the  way,  so  far 
succeeded  in  interesting  one  buyer  in  the  subject, 
that  he  promised  to  go  down  to  Rokeby  Park  and 
see  if  he  could  not  obtain  it  for  the  American  market. 
A few  months  later,  in  1906,  came  the  news  that  it 
had  been  sold  under  an  order  of  the  Court  of  Chan- 
cery for  £30,500,  and  that  the  purchasers  were  the 
dealers,  T.  Agnew  & Sons.  They  exhibited  it  for  a 
couple  of  months,  and  there  was  much  excitement 
over  the  chance  of  its  passing  to  America.  There- 
upon the  National  Arts  Collection  Fund  raised  the 
sum  of  £45,000  and  presented  it  to  the  nation.  The 
episode  had  its  obscure  side.  Some  observers  won- 
dered why  the  price  had  soared  so  high,  and  one  of 
them,  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  wrote  to  the  press  as 
follows : 

A very  large  sum  has  changed  hands  over  the  Rokeby 
Venus  and  we  have  no  statement  of  the  name  or  the  in- 
tention of  the  person  or  persons  who  made  this  payment 
necessary,  nor  of  any  other  facts  regarding  the  early  his- 
tory of  the  transaction.  I ask  for  an  exact  historical  ac- 
count of  the  offer  and  the  obtaining  of  the  Rokeby  Venus 
with  all  the  names  and  all  the  dates  and  all  the  pay- 
ments. 


298  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


Mr.  Gosse  never  got  what  he  wanted,  though  it  is 
said  that  there  was  “a  confidential  statement  to  the 
Committee  of  the  National  Arts  Collection  Fund 
which  appears  to  have  satisfied  that  body.”  Mean- 
while, the  authenticity  of  the  picture  had  not  gone 
unchallenged,  though  it  should  be  added  that  close 
watch  upon  the  fortunes  of  this  canvas  was  not  re- 
warded by  any  public  revelations  carrying  any  par- 
ticular weight.  The  Morning  Post,  which  was  of 
course  keen  upon  backing  up  its  critic,  editorially 
observed  that  “a  number  of  men  eminent  in  art  and 
letters  always  cast  doubts  on  the  aesthetic  and  mone- 
tary value  of  the  picture,”  but  when  it  went  on  to 
give  names  all  it  could  say  was  that  “ among  these 
may  be  mentioned  Sir  William  Richmond,  Mr.  Ed- 
mund Gosse,  and  Lord  Ronald  Sutherland  Gower.” 
The  trio  is  not  precisely  imposing.  Sir  William  Rich- 
mond is  the  artist  whose  decorations  in  St.  Paul’s 
aroused  a storm  of  protest,  and  I know  nothing  in  his 
work  as  a painter  or  in  his  record  otherwise  to  justify 
the  assumption  that  he  has  esoteric  insight  into  the 
art  of  Velasquez.  In  a recent  lecture  he  informed 
the  students  of  the  Royal  Academy  that  there  were 
two  pigments  used  in  the  painting  of  the  Venus  which 
were  not  in  existence  in  the  time  of  Velasquez.  What- 
ever the  force  of  this  argument  may  be  it  scarcely 
bolsters  up  the  idea  that  the  picture  was  painted  by 
Velasquez’s  son-in-law,  unless  we  are  to  assume  that 
the  latter  was  privately  inventing  new  colors.  As 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  299 


for  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  he  has,  so  far  as  I can  see, 
no  standing  whatever  in  a court  adjudicating  an  ar- 
tistic case.  His  suspicions  as  to  the  sale  do  not  sig- 
nify that  he  is  an  expert  on  Velasquez.  Lord  Ronald 
Sutherland  Gower  has  written  some  interesting  artis- 
tic biographies,  but  neither  in  these  nor  in  the  work 
of  sculpture  which  he  erected  in  Stratford  has  he  sug- 
gested that  he  is  possessed  of  rare  powers  of  artistic 
divination. 

I would  not,  however,  lay  undue  stress  upon  the 
character  of  Mr.  Greig’s  witnesses  — though  it  is  a 
fair  point  — • because  it  is,  in  the  circumstances,  of  no 
great  consequence.  As  regards  the  documentary  evi- 
dence adduced  by  Beruete  it  seems  to  me  convincing, 
but  in  any  case  we  should  turn  with  confidence  to 
the  picture  itself.  It  is  not,  I fear,  what  it  once  was. 
In  the  process  of  cleaning  it  has  lost  something  of  its 
bloom,  and,  in  fact,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  fairly 
indignant  over  the  scrubbing  it  would  appear  to  have 
received.  But  not  even  the  scrubbing  could  rob  it  of 
its  essential  charm,  the  essential  charm  of  Velasquez. 
Beruete  aptly  notes  that  it  is  painted  in  exactly  the 
same  tones  as  the  “Mercury  and  Argus”  and  the 
“Mars,”  and  he  finds  in  it  also  a certain  preponderance 
of  purple  tones  allying  it  to  the  master’s  “Coronation 
of  the  Virgin.”  He  goes  on  to  describe  it  as  one  of 
the  principal  works  of  Velasquez,  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant by  him  outside  the  Prado  — and  he  might 
have  added  that  it  is  one  of  those  in  which  you  most 


300  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


subtly  and  most  quickly  feel  the  indefinable  magic  of 
his  touch.  The  flesh  painting  is  superb  and  partic- 
ularly well  illustrates  the  strong  purity  of  the  mas- 
ter, that  quality  in  tone  and  in  brushwork  which  does 
so  much  to  give  him  his  place  apart.  Even  if  the 
initials  cited  by  Mr.  Greig  had  been  demonstrated  to 
exist  — and  the  manner  in  which  they  revealed  them- 
selves to  some  observers  and  not  to  others  imported 
an  element  of  humor  into  the  situation  — it  would 
still  have  been  left  to  the  doubting  critics  really  to 
make  good  their  case.  If  Velasquez  did  not  paint 
this  exquisite  picture  then  it  must  have  been  executed 
by  another  master  of  the  same  name. 


V 

EL  GRECO  AND  GOYA 

El  Greco  is  one  of  the  painters  who  have  lived,  by 
ideas.  The  melodramatic  aspect  of  much  of  his  work 
has  obscured  this  fact.  Criticism  has  been  baffled 
by  the  eccentric  elongation  of  form  which  generally 
marks  his  treatment  of  the  figure,  by  his  strange  and 
even  sinister  traits  as  a colorist,  and  by  his  sometimes 
unduly  forced  effects  of  light  and  shade.  The  im- 
pression he  conveys,  as  of  a genius  lying  in  a sort  of 
penumbra,  outside  the  traditional  lines  of  develop- 
ment in  European  painting,  has  been  happily  sum- 
marized by  a clever  English  artist  and  writer,  Charles 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  301 


Ricketts.  The  works  of  El  Greco,  he  has  said,  look 
as  if  they  had  been  painted  by  torchlight  in  a dun- 
geon of  the  Inquisition.  The  saying  is  perfect  save 
for  the  implication  it  carries  of  an  atmosphere  harsh 
and  cruel.  M.  Barres  takes  us  nearer  to  the  painter’s 
secret  in  his  ingenious  hypothesis  making  El  Greco 
simply  the  predestined  interpreter  of  the  spirit  of  To- 
ledo. A mystic  in  the  last,  subtlest  ingredients  of  his 
being,  he  threw  in  his  fortunes  with  a centre  of  mys- 
ticism when  he  made  the  old  cathedral  town  the  scene 
of  his  labors.  Man  of  the  world  though  he  was,  and 
vividly  alive  to  all  things  touching  the  eye  and  the 
mind,  his  genius  as  an  artist  was  still  in  harmony 
with  the  sentiment  of  the  church.  This  view  of  the 
matter  may  not  be  conclusive,  but  at  all  events  it 
affords  a profitable  clew,  inasmuch  as  it  directs  at- 
tention to  El  Greco’s  more  spiritual  qualities. 

The  connoisseur  of  technic  will  linger  appreciatively 
over  his  portraits,  but  if  he  is  wise  he  will  go  on  to 
consider  not  only  the  powerful  execution  but  the  sym- 
pathy with  which  El  Greco  painted  the  princes  and 
minor  servants  of  the  church,  and  a host  of  laymen 
too.  In  his  studies  of  character,  no  less  than  in  his 
religious  subjects,  and  in  pictures  like  the  famous 
“Burial  of  Count  Orgaz,”  where  devout  ecstasy  and 
the  realistic  traits  of  secular  portraiture  are  com- 
mingled, there  is  something  mysteriously  poignant, 
a sombre  emotion,  a point  of  view  which  is  not  that 
of  a painter  merely,  but  of  a man  sunk  in  half-pain- 


302  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


ful  revery.  His  amazing  “View  of  Toledo,”  almost 
the  sole  souvenir  of  his  interest  in  landscape,  is  re- 
markable for  much  more  than  its  dramatic  sky,  its 
intense  “picturesqueness.”  What  chiefly  impresses 
us  is  its  character  as  a spiritual  record.  The  theatri- 
cality of  the  piece  is  due  to  no  misreading  of  nature, 
but  to  the  fact  that  the  scene  has  been  observed  with 
some  indefinable  “inner  vision.”  Was  that  vision 
notably  inspired?  Do  we  owe  to  its  operation  pic- 
tures of  extraordinary  moment?  Despite  the  fervor 
with  which  El  Greco  is  appraised  in  some  quarters, 
one  may  be  permitted  to  doubt.  The  recent  craze  for 
the  old  masters  has  promoted  varied  developments. 
When  the  dealers,  ransacking  Europe  anew,  turned 
their  attention  to  Spain,  El  Greco  came  in  for  an 
astonishing  and  not  altogether  rationalized  popular- 
ity. His  present  rather  esoteric  vogue  is  not  neces- 
sarily going  to  last.  When  the  dithyrambic  cease 
from  troubling  and  the  scoffers  are  at  rest,  apprecia- 
tion of  El  Greco  will  probably  be  found  somewhere 
between  acceptance  of  him  as  a great  master  and  re- 
jection of  him  as  a morbid  eccentric. 

The  contrast  between  El  Greco  and  Goya  is  pro- 
found. One  used  in  his  pictures  a light  that  never 
was  on  land  or  sea.  The  other  used  the  familiar 
light  of  the  world  in  which  he  lived.  The  genuine- 
ness of  El  Greco’s  mysticism  we  cannot  question, 
however  we  may  speculate  as  to  its  ultimate  value. 
Goya’s  religious  emotion,  when  he  brought  it  into 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  303 


play,  was  not  precisely  insincere,  but  it  certainly  had 
no  depth,  no  real  force.  He  too,  like  El  Greco,  lived 
by  ideas,  but  they  were  the  ideas  of  a satirist,  and  an 
ineffably  worldly-wise  satirist  at  that.  His  art  is  sat- 
urated in  intelligence.  It  is  as  modern  in  feeling 
as  it  is  in  technique.  All  his  sitters  were  “subjects.” 
That  is  why  his  work  has  such  tremendous  vitality. 
It  interested  him  to  the  point  of  passion.  Style  in 
art  is  of  personality  all  compact.  You  can  read  a 
man’s  character  in  the  play  of  his  brush.  Goya’s 
history  is  writ  plain  across  the  surfaces  of  his  por- 
traits. 

He  was  an  eager,  militant  creature.  The  period  of 
social  decadence  in  which  he  lived  enraged  but  could 
not  disgust  or  depress  him.  He  looked  upon  the  vi- 
cious court  with  a scorn  he  would  not  pretend  to 
disguise,  but  he  painted  it  with  delight  and  gratitude. 
For  a man  of  his  moods  and  sardonic,  inquiring  mind 
what  could  have  been  more  welcome  than  such  a mass 
of  raw  material?  And  besides  the  bad  and  the  weak 
there  were  so  many  figures  in  Goya’s  Spain  that  were, 
on  the  surface,  merely  beautiful.  Look  at  one  of  his 
portraits  of  the  great  court  ladies  of  his  time  and 
observe  the  delicacy  with  which  the  painter  caresses 
an  exquisite  motive.  Watch  him  as  he  renders  the 
elusive  charm  of  texture  in  a fashionable  dress  or  gives 
himself  up  to  the  sensuous  grace  of  “The  Famous 
Bookseller  of  the  Calle  de  las  Carretas.”  Beauty  of 
form  and  of  color,  the  magic  of  light,  the  dramatic 


304  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


significance  of  movement  — these  things  find  in  him 
truly  “the  devouring  eye”  and  a hand  itching  to 
translate  the  thing  seen  into  terms  of  paint.  Goya 
is  of  his  time,  of  course,  and  his  portraits  are  Span- 
ish to  the  core.  His  faculty  for  blending  the  ease 
of  every-day  actuality  with  a certain  stiffness  attrib- 
utable to  courtly  modes  carries  us  straight  back  to 
eighteenth-century  Madrid.  But  in  their  ruthless 
psychology  and  in  their  peculiar  technical  brilliancy, 
which  is  wreaked  upon  human  nature  as  in  a fury  of 
artistic  passion,  his  portraits  might  have  been 
painted  yesterday. 

VI 

FOUR  MODERN  SPANIARDS 

I 

FORTUNY 

Was  Fortuny  a man  of  genius,  and,  if  so,  in  what 
does  his  genius  consist?  There  are  commentators 
who  barely  admit  that  he  had  more  than  a cheap 
talent.  I have  heard  an  artist,  himself  possessed  of 
at  least  a streak  of  genius,  disparaging  the  young 
Spaniard,  untimely  lost,  as  though  he  had  a personal 
and  somewhat  mean  little  grudge  to  satisfy.  Well, 
I know  that  Fortuny’s  vogue  is  not  what  it  once  was, 
but  neither  is  it  plain  that  he  is  on  the  way  to  be 
forgotten.  The  genius,  I think,  is  there.  It  consists 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  305 


in  impeccable  draughtsmanship,  dazzling  color,  and 
abounding  sunlight,  all  fused  with  the  rapidity  and 
sureness  of  instinct  into  works  of  brilliantly  original 
style.  The  Impressionists  might  protest  that  For- 
tuny had  no  atmosphere,  and  it  is  true  that  his  out- 
door work  lacks  the  subtle  vibrations  which  the  Bar- 
bizon  men  first  introduced  into  their  pictures  and 
which  the  Impressionists  have  since  made  the  chief 
object  of  their  study.  But  Fortuny’s  landscape  is 
nevertheless  true,  his  light  and  air  are  unmistakably 
drawn  from  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  nature, 
and  though  he  is  pre-eminently  a magician  of  nine- 
teenth-century painting,  pre-eminently  a master  who 
gets  out  of  the  palette  such  coruscating  effects  as 
we  look  for  in  the  art  of  a musical  virtuoso,  he  is 
one  of  the  most  accurate  and  one  of  the  most  hu- 
man painters  of  his  time. 

Somewhere  in  his  correspondence  Henri  Regnault 
speaks  of  Fortuny’s  having  robbed  him  of  his  sleep 
through  the  tremendous  effect  of  his  art.  It  is  easy 
to  understand  how  the  young  Frenchman  must  have 
been  overwhelmed.  Coming  from  Paris,  where  aca- 
demic precept  has  always  held  such  sway,  he  must 
have  felt  that  as  a matter  of  course  good  drawing 
was  the  product  of  study  as  well  as  of  genius.  In 
Fortuny  he  saw  it  spring  on  the  canvas  as  though 
by  legerdemain.  Fortuny  studied,  studied  all  his  life 
long,  and  in  a number  of  sketch-books  which  his 
widow  still  possesses  in  her  palace  in  Venice  there 


306  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


are  pages  and  pages  of  drawings  which  reveal  the 
most  ardent  search  after  the  last  details  of  structural 
truth.  The  painter  never  wearied  of  verifying  his 
impressions.  lie  labored  with  well-nigh  as  much 
assiduity  as  Meissonier  showed,  and  that  is  say- 
ing much.  But, he  never  fell  into  Meissonier’s  rigid 
methods  of  drawing.  On  the  contrary  he  went  on 
handling  his  brush  and  pencil  and  etching-needle  with 
the  freedom  and  dexterity  of  one  for  whom  difficul- 
ties did  not  exist. 

It  is  surprising  to  find  how  soon  he  arrived  at 
this  freedom.  Bom  at  Reus,  in  Catalonia,  in  June, 
1838,  his  modest  circumstances  kept  him  for  a while 
unable  to  pursue  his  artistic  studies  to  advantage. 
And  when,  in  his  teens,  he  labored  at  the  Barcelona 
Academy,  he  won  the  Prix  de  Rome  without  doing 
anything  that  clearly  foreshadowed  the  triumphs  of 
his  manhood.  When  I took  a long  journey  to  look 
up  the  memorials  of  that  early  time  I was  some- 
what disappointed  by  the  little  collection  preserved 
at  Barcelona.  But  in  1859,  when  General  Prim  was 
carrying  on  military  operations  in  Morocco,  the  young 
painter  was  sent  to  the  front  to  make  studies  of  the 
campaign.  He  made  them.  Ultimately,  after  vex- 
atious delays  and  negotiations  too  complicated  to  be 
touched  upon  at  length  in  this  place,  he  produced 
“The  Battle  of  Tetuan,”  a large  canvas  which  may 
be  seen  in  the  Barcelona  museum.  It  is  an  inter- 
esting picture,  and  shows  that  the  artist  had  found 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  307 


his  style.  But  still  more  eloquent  are  the  small 
studies  made  by  Fortuny  at  this  time.  If  he  had  felt 
the  witchery  of  the  sun  in  Spain  he  had  not  yet  car- 
ried it  into  his  art.  Arriving  in  Morocco  the  sun  took 
him  captive  forever,  and  the  bizarre  character  of  the 
landscape  and  people  settled  the  direction  of  his 
genius.  From  that  epoch  he  became  the  Fortuny 
that  we  know.  A few  years  later  he  was  in  Paris: 
then  he  visited  Madrid  and  married  Sehorita  Madrazo, 
daughter  of  the  director  of  the  Prado;  and  in  a little 
while  he  proceeded  to  Rome,  living  there  until  his 
death  in  1874.  Neither  in  Paris  nor  Spain  nor  Italy 
did  he  let  go  of  the  Moorish  inspiration.  That  had 
saturated  his  nature,  and  his  entire  work  shows  him 
the  master  of  those  exquisite  effects  of  color  and  light 
which  he  first  saw  on  the  campaign  with  General  Prim. 
Even  in  such  pictures  as  “The  Spanish  Marriage”  or 
“The  Academicians  of  Saint  Luke  Choosing  a Model,” 
which  are  far  removed  in  their  fastidious  elegance  from 
the  blaze  and  brilliancy  of  Moorish  scenes,  he  is  true  to 
the  old  point  of  departure.  The  sparkle  which  be- 
longs to  his  sketches  of  Tangiers  still  plays  about 
his  drawing-room  scenes  and  his  studies  of  rococo 
figures,  furniture,  costume  and  manners. 

His  critics  have  sometimes  averred  that  it  was  all 
a matter  of  trickery,  a skilful  application  of  the  pyro- 
technical  ingenuities  of  Goya,  whom  he  had  certainly 
studied  with  much  devotion.  But  one  way  of  prov- 
ing the  fallacy  of  this  judgment  is  to  compare 


308  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


Fortuny  with  any  of  his  numerous  followers,  espe- 
cially in  Paris,  Madrid  and  Rome.  His  methods 
become  trickery  and  jugglery  in  lesser  hands.  With 
him  they  were  the  spontaneous  and  artless  expression 
of  his  nature.  Hence  his  paintings  glitter  without 
being  artificial,  they  are  like  jewelled  canvases,  but 
they  are  never  hard  or  mechanical.  Furthermore, 
they  have,  for  all  their  daintiness  and  fragile  charm, 
a peculiar  strength  and  even  dignity  of  composition. 
Few  cautious  and  thoughtful  Academicians  have  had 
a finer  gift  for  filling  a canvas  than  Fortuny  pos- 
sessed. The  great  picture  of  “The  Academicians  of 
Saint  Luke  Choosing  a Model”  is  one  proof  of  this, 
“'The  Spanish  Marriage”  is  another;  but,  indeed, 
Fortuny’s  smallest  and  most  casual  sketch  was  apt 
to  have  this  balance  and  this  beauty  of  proportion. 
I recall  the  arrangement  of  the  accessories  in  a little 
sketch  of  the  artist’s  daughter,  the  relation  of  the 
white  table  to  the  dark  background  and  the  just 
proportions  of  the  two  contrasting  spaces.  Instinc- 
tively Fortuny  put  his  figures  in  the  right  part  of  the 
canvas  or  paper,  instinctively  he  introduced  or  omit- 
ted just  the  things  that  would  make  or  mar  his 
design,  and  if  “The  Academicians  of  Saint  Luke 
Choosing  a Model”  and  “The  Spanish  Marriage” 
are  more  remarkable  in  one  way  than  another  it  is 
in  their  illustration  of  sumptuousness  combined  with 
perfect  simplicity  of  design.  There  is  a water-color 
of  Fortuny’s  which  represents  a Kabyle  chief  stand- 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  309 


ing  on  a prayer-rug  in  a mosque  in  Tangiers,  his 
picturesque  figure  set  boldly  against  a massive  white 
pillar.  In  the  background  the  broad  walls  of  the 
mosque,  with  their  bands  of  arabesques,  are  drawn 
with  great  breadth  and  force.  It  is  just  such  a 
composition  as  would  reduce  most  artists  to  despair, 
the  materials  are  so  hopelessly  simple.  Fortuny 
keeps  each  detail  in  exactly  the  right  relation  to 
the  next  and  makes  a symmetrical  picture  where  it 
would  have  seemed  impossible  to  make  more  than  an 
ephemeral  sketch. 

There  is  nothing  ephemeral  about  his  work.  Gay 
as  it  is,  light-hearted  and  vivacious  as  is  the  senti- 
ment which  runs  through  it,  there  is  still  a remark- 
able solidity  about  this  master’s  art.  Whatever  he 
did  he  did  so  well,  whatever  vein  he  cultivated  he 
forced  to  yield  such  beautiful  and  original  results, 
that  the  one  law  of  experience  which  promises  to  harm 
him  is  really  suspended  in  his  honor.  He  glitters,  and 
the  artist  who  glitters  is  almost  invariably  tiring. 
But  Fortuny  does  not  tire. 


II 

SOROLLA 

A long  time  ago,  in  Madrid,  the  painters  and  sculp- 
tors I met  there  were  unanimous  on  the  question  of 
what  one  of  their  fellow-artists  would  ultimately  do 


310  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


to  astonish  the  world.  They  maintained  that  Joa- 
quin Sorolla,  a painter  then  still  in  his  young  man- 
hood, was  going  sooner  or  later  to  revolutionize  the 
school  to  which  they  belonged  and  to  win  European 
fame.  At  first  it  was  a little  difficult  to  understand 
this  enthusiasm.  A picture  by  him,  much  in  favor 
at  the  time,  the  one  called  “Another  Marguerite” 
(which  is  now,  by  the  way,  preserved  in  St.  Louis), 
made  its  impression  rather  through  its  pathos  than 
through  any  special  qualities  of  technique.  Later, 
certain  open-air  studies  of  his  provided  an  explana- 
tion of  the  emotion  of  his  friends.  They  showed  that 
he  was  achieving  remarkable  mastery  over  effects  of 
light  and  air,  and  that  he  was  developing  also  great 
adroitness  as  a draughtsman.  Since  then  Sorolla’s 
progress  has  been  phenomenal,  and  I was  interested 
to  observe,  at  the  large  exhibition  which  he  opened  in 
the  Georges  Petit  gallery,  in  Paris,  several  years  ago, 
that  he  had  more  than  fulfilled  old  expectations. 
This  exhibition  was  repeated  at  the  Grafton  galleries, 
in  London,  and  more  recently,  early  in  1909,  the 
artist  made  a similar  appearance  in  New  York. 
Three  hundred  and  fifty  of  his  paintings  and  studies 
were  hung  in  the  building  of  the  Hispanic  Society  of 
America. 

Sorolla’s  significance  as  a figure  in  modern  Spanish 
art  is  the  better  appreciated  if  the  student  considers 
the  traits  of  his  more  salient  predecessors.  With  the 
death  of  Goya,  in  1828,  Spain  bade  farewell  to  an 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  3 1 1 


artistic  vitality  which,  in  fact,  he  alone  had  kept 
going  for  a long  period.  Even  Goya  had  but  fitfully 
revived  gleams  of  that  sacred  fire  which  had  burned 
with  so  steady  a glow  in  the  art  of  Velasquez,  and  it 
is  especially  important  to  note  that  he  founded  no 
school.  The  Spaniards  following  him  were,  to  tell  the 
truth,  a rather  mediocre  company,  painting  in  dull, 
academic  fashion.  The  first  man  of  consequence  to 
rise  amongst  them  was  Mariano  Fortuny.  He  was 
a type  of  what  is  familiarly  known  as  diabolical  clev- 
erness. He  manipulated  his  pigments  with  the  skill 
of  a conjurer  taking  a rabbit  out  of  a hat.  But,  as 
I have  already  shown,  he  was  not  a mere  producer 
of  jeweller’s  work,  of  bric-a-brac  in  paint.  Unfor- 
tunately, it  was  his  sleight-of-hand  that  appealed  to 
the  men  who  gathered  around  him  in  Rome,  and 
that  they  made  popular  there  and  in  Spain.  A 
vast  quantity  of  Spanish  art  was  presently  all  aglit- 
ter.  To  the  credit  of  some  of  its  makers,  be  it  said, 
they  had  talents  strong  enough  to  triumph  over  the 
besetting  temptation.  Pradilla,  for  example,  was 
quick  to  perceive  that  man  cannot  live  by  bric-a-brac 
alone,  and  his  individuality  pushed  its  way  through 
the  web  of  filigree  and  sparkle  which  Fortuny  had 
made  so  bewitching.  Yet  Pradilla  remained  a sharer 
in  his  clever  countryman’s  love  of  detail,  of  pictur- 
esque costume  and  so  on,  and  this  predilection  caught 
any  number  of  other  Spaniards  in  its  net.  Villegas 
is  perhaps  the  most  conspicuous  of  these,  but  a long 


312  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


list  might  be  made  of  men  who  were  bound  to  give 
to  any  miscellaneous  exhibition  of  Spanish  art  a gen- 
eral air  of  artificial  fight  used  to  bring  out  the  sheen 
of  rich  stuffs  and  metals,  of  pictures  worked  up  in  the 
studio  rather  than  based  upon  frank  contact  with 
nature.  A man  of  genius,  following  a legitimate  in- 
spiration, might  turn  this  motive  of  technical  leger- 
demain to  good  purpose,  as  the  late  Daniel  Vierge  did 
in  the  formation  of  his  brilliant  style  as  a pen  draughts- 
man, but  in  the  field  of  painting  it  was  certain  to  be 
superseded.  Sorolla  has  done  more  than  any  other 
Spaniard  of  his  time  to  put  it  in  its  proper  place. 

There  are  other  revolutionists  in  the  school,  and 
one  or  two  of  them,  like  Zuloaga  and  Anglada,  have 
won  high  repute,  but  neither  of  these  painters  pro- 
duces work  that  is,  as  the  saying  goes,  “of  the  cen- 
tre.” They  see  nature  as  through  a very  arbitrarily 
fabricated  veil.  Anglada  blends  the  note  of  the 
Salon  with  that  of  Goya  and  leaves  an  impression 
of  meretricious  artifice.  Zuloaga  is  a master  of 
the  tour  de  jorce;  and  though  that  need  not  neces- 
sarily spell  anything  undesirable,  it  means,  in 
his  case,  work  that  somehow  fails  to  carry  con- 
viction. Sorolla’s  strength  lies  in  his  genuine- 
ness. He  does  not  follow  either  Fortuny  or  Velas- 
quez. He  faces  nature  and  endeavors  to  put  her 
truths  upon  canvas  precisely  as  he  sees  them.  “En- 
deavors” is,  perhaps,  hardly  the  word.  If  there  is 
one  thing  more  than  another  suggested  by  his  work, 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  313 


it  is  that  he  paints  a picture  as  a man  might  write 
a note — setting  down  what  he  has  to  say  with  pos- 
itively appalling  fluency  and  aplomb.  I remember 
a picture  of  his  of  a girl  in  white  at  Biarritz,  a girl 
painted  in  full  light.  She  was  using  a small  photo- 
graphic camera,  and  he  called  the  picture  “Instan- 
tanea.”  The  legend  might  go  with  the  mass  of  his 
work.  His  exhibition  in  Paris  was  much  frequented 
by  artists,  and  one  of  them,  standing  in  amazement 
before  a certain  study  of  children  running  against 
the  wind  near  the  surf,  paid  a striking  tribute  to 
Sorolla’s  faculty  for  depicting  action.  “Listen,”  he 
said  to  me,  this  painter  himself  famous  throughout 
Europe  for  an  almost  uncanny  skill.  “I  have  had  years 
of  experience  in  dealing  with  problems  like  these, 
and  I don’t  know  how  he  does  it!  I would  have 
thought  one  needed  a camera  to  get  the  truth  in  such 
shape  as  that.” 

It  is  not  with  light  and  air  alone,  with  a broad 
swift  vision  of  things,  that  he  gains  his  success.  It 
is  with  a decisive  grasp  upon  form,  and  a power 
of  drawing  that  sometimes  leaves  one  breathless.  He 
has  been  described,  with  overwrought  zeal,  as  “apart 
from,  and  superior  to,  the  modern  French  Impres- 
sionists.” He  is  not  superior  to  Manet,  for  example, 
or  to  Degas,  for  art,  as  the  too  fervid  advocates 
should  remember,  embraces  many  qualities.  It  will 
be  time  to  talk  of  Seiior  Sorolla’s  superiority  when  he 
has  surpassed  such  masterpieces,  say,  as  that  portrait 


314  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


of  a lady  in  black,  by  Degas,  which  is  one  of  the  gems 
in  Mrs.  Gardner’s  collection  in  Boston  and  Fortuny’s 
superb  portrait  in  the  same  key  in  the  Metropolitan 
Museum.  Neither  of  these,  by  the  way,  it  may  be 
said  in  all  courtesy,  has  he  yet  even  approached. 
Probably  Senor  Sorolla  himself  would  be  quick  to 
recognize  the  fact.  But  there  are  undoubtedly  points 
of  difference  between  this  Spaniard  and  the  French- 
man whose  passion  for  the  open  air  is  likewise  his 
own.  His  draughtsmanship  is  closer,  he  follows  form 
with  a simpler,  more  confident,  and,  above  all,  more 
flowing  touch.  The  odd  thing  is  that  he  charms, 
gives  you  the  sense  of  a certain  personal  quality  in 
his  drawing,  for  all  that  his  style  might  be  roughly 
described  as  more  photographic,  more  scientific,  than 
artistic.  I may  cite  his  "Sea  Idyll,”  a picture  of  a 
boy  and  a girl  lying  in  wet  sand  with  the  water  just 
touching  their  legs.  The  boy  wears  nothing  save  an 
old  straw  hat  with  a wide  brim.  The  girl  wears  a 
bathing  dress  of  some  thin  material,  and  this,  sat- 
urated with  water,  clings  to  her  body.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  beat  the  sheer  technical  proficiency 
shown  in  this  painting,  and,  as  has  been  said,  there 
is  an  odd  savor  of  individuality,  of  style,  to  be  ap- 
prehended, fused  with  the  clever  brushwork. 

It  is  with  such  motives  as  the  one  here  described 
that  Sorolla  is  at  his  best.  Over  and  over  again  he 
paints  his  young  bathers,  scampering  along  the  sands, 
enfolded  in  the  towel  brought  by  a nurse,  just  plung- 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  315 


ing  into  the  waves,  or,  as  in  one  beautiful  example, 
“Swimmers,”  showing  their  lithe  brown  bodies  in 
the  very  element  itself  and  taking  on  therefrom  a new 
beauty.  His  “Oxen  Ready  to  Beach  Fishing  Boats, 
Valencia,”  the  picture  with  well-filled  white  sails  bil- 
lowing above  the  boats  and  cattle,  is  known  every- 
where through  reproductions.  It  admirably  illus- 
trates his  bravura.  It  is  a picture  painted  for  the 
Salon  that  is,  nevertheless,  not  wholly  a “Salon 
picture.”  That  is  to  say,  Sorolla  boldly  arrests  your 
attention,  yet  puts  not  a trace  of  sensationalism  into 
his  work.  His  drawing  is  as  sound,  his  color  is  as 
well  managed,  his  spirit  is  as  sincere  as  when  he  is 
making  one  of  his  smaller  studies  or  even  painting 
one  of  his  innumerable  little  snap-shots. 

You  would  say,  on  observing  the  uniform  authority 
of  this  painter,  exerted  alike  in  a great  “show-piece” 
and  in  a casual  note  of  movement  and  color,  that  his 
resources  could  never  fail  him;  but  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that,  with  all  his  gifts,  he  still  has  certain 
clearly  defined  limitations.  Let  him  work  in  a flood 
of  sunlight  and  he  is  at  his  ease,  but  ask  him  to  paint 
nature  in  one  of  her  tenderer,  more  poetic  aspects, 
and  he  is  not  so  sure.  His  science  does  not  forsake 
him.  He  paints  his  ground  forms  truthfully  enough. 
But  he  brings  no  emotion  to  his  task,  no  sub- 
tlety, and  to  note  this  fact  in  his  landscape  work 
is  presently  to  note  it  elsewhere  with  even  greater 
regret. 


3 16  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


As  a portrait-painter  Sorolla  is,  one  may  be  sure, 
a master  of  the  likeness.  You  are  impressed  by  the 
firmness  with  which  he  models  a head,  the  nimble- 
ness with  which  he  passes  swiftly  over  the  features, 
and,  above  all,  the  vitality  with  which  he  invests  his 
sitter.  But  while  his  grasp  of  form  and  his  sense  of 
character  may  be  demonstrated  in  these  heads,  and 
while  he  may  paint  the  bodies  of  his  men  and  women 
with  understanding,  the  want  of  sunlight  seems  to 
react  upon  his  temperament  and  to  make  him  cold, 
to  deprive  his  style  of  most,  if  not  all,  of  its  elan. 
Furthermore,  his  portraits  show,  even  more  than  his 
open-air  pictures — and  these  are  by  no  means  devoid 
of  significance  in  the  matter  — that  while  his  color  is 
true  it  never  possesses  a fine  quality.  About  nothing 
that  he  paints  does  there  hang  the  charm  of  beautiful 
surface.  He  uses  his  pigments  not  sensitively,  not 
with  a loving  feeling  for  them,  but  with  a kind  of 
brutality.  His  pictures,  especially  when  seen  in  large 
numbers,  have  an  almost  blinding  effect.  They  do 
not  beguile,  they  dazzle.  They  bring  vividly  into 
the  foreground  the  fact  that  Sorolla  is  not  an  imag- 
inative painter,  not  a man  of  dreams  or  of  complex 
emotions.  He  is  simply  a marvellously  equipped 
technician,  born  to  paint  human  beings  breathing 
and  moving  in  a world  of  light  and  air.  Though 
his  works  do  not  “wear  well,”  having  no  creative 
inspiration  in  them,  their  immediate,  momentary 
appeal  is  irresistible. 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  317 


III 

ZULOAGA 

The  exhibition  at  the  Hispanic  Museum  of  the 
works  of  Sorolla  was  followed  by  one  of  some  thirty- 
five  or  forty  paintings  by  his  countryman,  Ignacio 
Zuloaga.  This  artist,  like  the  other,  has  made  some 
stir  in  Paris  and  elsewhere,  though  he  has  not  in  his 
own  land  enjoyed  quite  the  same  popularity  as 
Sorolla.  The  explanation  is  simple.  The  methods 
of  Sorolla  are  of  special  importance  to  existing  con- 
ditions in  Spanish  art.  The  example  of  his  direct 
dealing  with  open-air  subjects  has  been  needed  by  the 
school  to  which  he  belongs.  Zuloaga,  a very  different 
type,  has  no  invigorating  inspiration  to  transmit  to 
contemporaries  already  predisposed  to  excessive  ar- 
tifice. He  is  himself  of  artifice  all  compact,  one  of 
those  painters  who  retire  to  a world  of  their  own, 
consulting  Nature  only  in  order  to  clothe  her  truths 
in  a specious  garment.  The  commotion  aforesaid 
which  he  has  produced  is  not,  of  course,  to  be  cava- 
lierly dismissed.  A reputation  like  that  of  Zuloaga 
must  rest  upon  some  more  or  less  substantial  foun- 
dation. It  would  seem  to  have  its  basis  in  novelty 
or  rather  in  the  exploitation  of  old  ideas  by  a piquant 
personality. 

This  painter  derives,  in  substance,  from  Goya. 
He  is  interested  in  national  types  of  a picturesque 


3 1 8 Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


or  even  grotesque  order,  and  delineates  them  in 
somewhat  sombre  mood.  The  women  in  one  of  his 
pictures,  “The  Sorceresses  of  San  Millan,”  are  just 
such  bleak  old  witches  as  Goya  loved  to  draw.  It  is 
not  the  mere  subject  that  hints  at  a sympathy  be- 
tween the  modern  painter  and  the  eighteenth-cen- 
tury master.  There  are  subtler  points  of  identifi- 
cation, points  of  temperament.  In  his  studies  of 
familiar  Spanish  life  Zuloaga  also  recalls  the  early 
bodegones  of  Velasquez,  but  there  is  really  nothing  in 
common  between  him  and  the  great  court  painter. 
Velasquez  had  an  instinct  for  beauty.  Zuloaga 
would  seem  to  have  nothing  of  the  sort.  Velasquez 
was  a supreme  exemplar  of  style.  Zuloaga  is  a man- 
nerist if  ever  there  was  one.  His  manner,  like  every- 
thing else  in  his  art,  points  to  an  external  influence, 
suggests  work  done  from  without  rather  than  pro- 
duced out  of  true  creative  energy.  He  reproduces 
the  accent  of  Manet,  without  its  freshness  and  fire. 
His  figures  are  painted  in  broad  and  heavy  masses 
of  flat  color,  not  precisely  opaque,  but  scarcely  trans- 
parent. He  is  fond  of  the  silhouette.  Though  his 
figures  do  not  lack  relief,  but  are,  indeed,  very  solidly 
and  even  boldly  modelled,  they  leave  the  impression 
of  having  been  painted  in  outline  and  then  filled  in 
with  color.  The  result  is  arresting.  Few  eclectics 
are  so  successful  as  Zuloaga  has  been  in  fusing  di- 
verse influences  and  adding  a suggestion  of  individ- 
uality. You  feel  that  he  has  looked  sympathetically 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  319 


at  the  old  Spanish  painters,  interested  himself  in  the 
types  of  the  Spanish  countryside  or  the  bull-ring, 
taken  a leaf  out  of  the  book  of  French  Impressionism, 
and  then  set  himself  down  in  the  studio  to  work  it  all 
up  into  an  effective  picture  for  the  Salon.  There  he 
would  be  bound  to  attract  attention,  but  it  is  difficult 
to  see  how  criticism  could  have  ignored  the  unin- 
spired character  of  his  work  and  its  very  grave 
specific  defects. 

His  surfaces  are  cold  and  inert.  They  are,  in  fact, 
positively  claylike.  It  is  almost  incredible  that  a 
painter  so  clever  should  deal  in  tones  so  hard  and 
lifeless.  Nowhere  in  his  work  is  anything  like  elas- 
ticity to  be  discerned.  His  leathery,  unmodulated 
color  is  matched  by  his  dogged,  nerveless  crafts- 
manship. Of  the  documentary  value  of  some  of  his 
paintings  there  can  be  no  question.  He  is  a faith- 
ful illustrator.  There  are  paintings  by  Zuloaga  which 
vividly  revive  memories  of  stony  Spanish  hill-towns, 
bathed  in  cold,  crystal-clear  light.  They  are  very 
Spanish,  and  so  is  he — racy,  without  nuance,  abso- 
lutely tangible.  The  direct  statement  characteristic 
of  this  painter  is  as  forcible,  as  uncompromising,  as 
the  heavy  mass  of  a Spanish  wall,  and  pigment  as  it 
is  used  in  his  mode  of  expression  has  something  of 
the  same  density.  Why  is  it,  I wonder,  that  the 
latter-day  Spanish  painter,  like  Zuloaga  or  Sorolla, 
seemingly  makes  no  effort  to  study  that  pure  beauty 
of  surface  which  meant  so  much  to  the  Velasquez 


320  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


whom  doubtless  they  adore?  Their  color  may  be 
never  so  brilliant,  and  yet  it  is  without  quality  and 
very  nearly  opaque.  The  best  of  Zuloaga’s  pictures 
is  never  anything  more  than  a tour  de  force,  as  sharply 
vivid  in  its  definition  of  form  as  a merely  honest,  in 
no  wise  “touched-up”  photograph  might  be,  and 
with  every  note  of  color  in  it  given  its  full  value. 
This  color,  too,  is  kept  well  together,  and  it  tells 
effectively  against  a somewhat  factitious  but  still 
very  skilfully  painted  background.  The  figure  is  full 
of  life,  and  in  the  strongly  modelled  head  and  face, 
brimming  over  with  character,  the  artist  provides 
just  the  right  climax  to  his  vitalized,  pictorial  mo- 
tive. Only  a powerful  and  original  craftsman  could 
do  this  thing.  What  is  it,  then,  that  disturbs  our 
impression? 

The  excess  of  detail  in  the  painting  of  the  costume, 
the  forced  simplicity  of  the  background,  which  too 
obviously,  too  trickily,  throws  out  the  figure;  the 
savor  of  studio  pose  which  underlies  the  indubitable 
reality  of  the  piece;— all  these  things  might  conceiv- 
ably fall  into  subordination  to  the  artist’s  main  pur- 
pose and  even  appear  negligible  if  it  were  not  for  one 
cardinal  limitation.  This  is  Zuloaga’s  blunt  indif- 
ference to  the  genius  of  his  medium.  I have  called 
his  color  brilliant,  but  it  is  a hot  and  heavy  brilliance. 
His  drawing,  though  not  precisely  turgid,  is  unques- 
tionably wanting  in  ease,  and,  by  the  same  token,  in 
distinction.  He  is  an  able  painter,  and  yet  the  con- 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  321 


viction  will  not  down  that  he  paints,  so  to  say,  by 
main  strength.  His  work  is  full  of  interest  and  it 
has  not  an  atom  of  charm.  Zuloaga  is  one  of  those 
painters  who  excite  in  us  a kind  of  wistful  revery. 
We  speculate  as  to  what  achievements  might  have 
been  theirs  if  only  their  gifts  had  been  a little  better 
balanced.  We  look  at  a picture  by  him,  so  well 
composed,  so  masterfully  done,  and  wish  that  the 
composition  had  been  a little  more  artlessly  framed, 
that  he  had  got  into  it  something  of  the  spontaneity 
of  life  instead  of  the  immobility  of  a good  tableau. 
We  wish  for  more  atmosphere,  for  tones  more  subtly 
broken;  in  a word,  for  less  of  brute  force  and  more 
of  creative  mystery.  He  can  paint  a boldly  asser- 
tive portrait,  working  on  the  surface.  He  cannot 
paint  the  soul  of  things,  for  amongst  all  his  rich  re- 
sources we  find  neither  imagination  nor  taste. 


IV 

VIERGE 

I 

Paris  paid  a handsome  tribute  to  the  memory  of 
Daniel  Vierge  in  the  late  winter  of  1912.  I saw 
then,  in  the  Pavilion  de  Marsan,  a voluminous  and 
impressive  array  of  his  drawings  and  other  produc- 
tions, brought  together  in  recognition  of  the  fact 
that  his  genius  needed  to  be,  in  the  characteristic 


322  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


French  phrase,  definitively  established  and  conse- 
crated. For  this  purpose  the  organizers  wisely  chose 
as  their  most  desirable  souvenir  of  the  great  draughts- 
man the  series  of  illustrations  for  “Don  Quixote”  in 
which  he  fulfilled  the  ambition  of  a lifetime;  but 
there  were  scores  of  other  things  to  affirm  his  fame. 
And  it  was  high  time  for  him  to  be  thus  commemo- 
rated. When  he  died,  some  seven  years  prior  to  this 
exhibition  held  in  his  honor,  I remember  noticing 
with  chagrin  how  little  attention  was  paid  to  the 
event  by  the  world  at  large.  And  yet  public  indif- 
ference to  the  termination  of  a remarkable  career 
was  perhaps  to  be  expected. 

When  this  born  draughtsman  left  Madrid,  his  na- 
tive town,  in  his  nineteenth  year,  and  went  to  Paris, 
he  reached  there  just  in  time  to  make  sketches  of 
the  siege  for  the  Monde  Illustre.  His  work  was  so 
good  that  he  had  thereafter  no  difficulty  in  obtain- 
ing commissions.  He  poured  forth  illustrations  for 
periodicals  and  books  with  apparently  inexhaustible 
fertility,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  miscellaneous  labors 
contrived  to  produce  a masterpiece  in  the  shape  of  a 
series  of  drawings  for  the  famous  picaresque  novel  of 
Quevedo,  “ Don  Pablo  de  Segovia.”  He  had  won  fame, 
and  fortune  also  was  almost  within  his  grasp.  When 
he  was  stricken  with  paralysis  his  right  side  was 
rendered  useless,  and  though  he  trained  himself  to 
work  with  his  left  hand,  he  necessarily  dropped,  in  a 
measure,  out  of  the  race.  He  was  only  thirty  years 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  323 


old.  He  was  not  without  honors  or  prosperity  dur- 
ing the  remaining  twenty-three  years  of  his  life,  but 
he  was  as  modest  as  he  was  proud,  and  worked  on 
contentedly  in  a retirement  which  explains,  in  some 
sort,  the  slight  attention  paid  to  his  death. 

Strolling  one  day  on  the  outskirts  of  Paris  with  the 
late  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton,  I spoke  to  him  of 
Vierge,  whose  “ Pablo  ” illustrations,  in  a copy  of  the 
book  I had  picked  up  in  Spain,  had  excited  my  ad- 
miration, and  he  burst  into  enthusiastic  eulogy  of 
the  artist,  who  had  long  been  his  friend.  Hamerton 
praised  him  as  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  tech- 
nicians he  had  ever  known,  but  he  was  almost  warmer 
in  his  tribute  to  Vierge  as  a man.  “Be  sure  you  go 
to  see  him,”  he  said.  “You  will  find  him  one  of  the 
gentlest  and  sunniest  of  afflicted  men.”  Soon  after 
I had  the  privilege  of  spending  a couple  of  hours 
with  him  in  his  home  at  Boulogne-sur-Seine.  He 
lived  in  a little  house  set  back  in  a narrow  garden, 
with  vines  clambering  everywhere,  even  across  the 
old  iron  gate  through  which  one  passed  on  ringing  the 
far-off,  tinkling  bell.  As  I walked  up  the  gravel  path 
I saw  on  the  right  a wicker  enclosure  occupied  by  a 
number  of  aristocratic  fowls.  On  the  left,  further 
on,  was  the  house,  and  behind  it  the  studio  in  which 
he  spent  most  of  his  time.  It  was  a comparatively 
bare  room,  with  few  of  the  luxurious  appointments 
familiar  in  the  studios  of  Parisian  artists.  Vierge 
found  it  agreeable  to  rub  along  with  a few  pictures, 


324  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


a few  cupboards,  a few  well-filled  bookcases,  an  old 
table,  with  one  or  two  chairs,  and  a screen  hung  with 
dilapidated  costumes.  There  were  no  rugs  on  the 
floor.  It  was,  in  fact,  a very  Spanish  interior,  char- 
acteristic of  a race  capable  of  being  gorgeous  to  a 
degree,  or  equally  austere.  Vierge  himself  provided 
the  best  key  to  his  surroundings.  He  seemed  sim- 
plicity itself,  a tall  and  stalwart  man  who  must  have 
been  commanding  in  the  old  days,  before  paralysis 
overtook  him.  It  was  pathetic  to  see  this  fine  artist 
compelled  to  move  with  hesitation  across  the  room, 
compelled  to  rely  upon  his  wife’s  interpretation  of 
the  almost  soundless  movement  of  his  lips  for  the 
understanding  of  his  every  wish.  Madame  Vierge,  a 
kindly,  matronly  woman,  as  simple  in  her  manners 
as  was  her  husband,  was  his  right  hand  in  everything 
save  his  drawing.  It  was  good  to  see  the  two  to- 
gether, Vierge  as  full  of  gayety  as  though  he  were  in 
the  best  of  health,  and  laughing  over  his  own  jokes 
with  the  spontaneity  of  the  true  humorist. 

They  told  me  of  what  had  happened  when  the 
paralysis  came.  His  memory  failed  then,  he  lost  his 
power  to  remember  the  significance  of  the  printed 
word;  but,  read  aloud  to  him,  everything  became 
vivid  in  his  mind.  The  slightest  jottings  in  his  old 
sketch-books  gave  him  sufficient  material  for  elab- 
orate drawings,  for  when  once  facts  of  architecture, 
scenery  or  costume  were  brought  back  to  him  by 
visual  suggestion,  he  never  forgot  them  again.  His 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  325 


talk  was  naturally  limited,  but  what  he  said  was  in  a 
modest  and  generous  strain.  He  expressed  his  ad- 
miration for  Abbey,  Pennell  and  one  or  two  other 
Americans,  and  spoke  cordially  of  the  illustrative 
work  in  American  magazines.  When  he  referred  to 
his  own  performances  it  was  with  the  intonation  and 
gesture  of  a man  regarding  himself  as  the  least  im- 
portant practitioner  of  his  craft.  When  we  talked  of 
the  folio  edition  of  “Pablo,”  which  had  been  brought 
out  in  English,  with  his  illustrations,  he  was  wholly 
good-humored  over  the  fact  that  no  one  had  up  to 
that  time  thought  it  worth  while  to  send  him  a copy. 
There  was  something  touching  in  his  sweetness.  Life 
had  used  him  hardly.  The  paralytic  stroke  from 
which  he  suffered  was  doubly  tragic,  considering  his 
profession.  But  he  did  not  murmur.  The  atmos- 
phere in  his  almost  sequestered  home  was  as  cheery 
as  the  sunny  suburb  in  which  he  had  made  it. 

11 

Vierge  long  since  saved  his  critics  the  trouble  of 
“placing”  him  by  the  simple  process  of  seizing  the 
chief  position  in  modern  pen  draughtsmanship  and 
holding  it.  It  is  the  purity  of  his  method  that  makes 
him  unique.  In  the  sphere  of  pen  draughtsmanship, 
by  which  is  meant,  of  course,  that  of  the  book  and 
magazine  illustrator,  he  is  what  Velasquez  is  in  the 
sphere  of  painting,  or  Rembrandt  in  the  sphere  of 
etching,  a man  of  genius  whose  technical  practice 


326  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


constitutes  a kind  of  law.  Fortuny,  his  gifted  coun- 
tryman, made  some  brilliant  pen  drawings,  but  not 
even  in  the  best  of  them  did  he  so  “live  by  line”  as 
it  was  Vierge’s  habit  to  live.  Neither  Menzel  nor 
Keene,  his  two  greatest  contemporaries,  had  quite  his 
way  of  giving  the  beholder  a sense  of  delight  in  pen 
drawing  for  its  own  sake.  Phil  May  might  have 
approached  him  in  this,  but  Phil  May,  pace  Mr. 
Whistler,  had  not  an  atom  of  Vierge’s  distinction  of 
style.  That  is  the  Spanish  artist’s  great  virtue.  His 
technique  is  not  merely  impeccable,  but  has  quality 
■ — is  an  affair  of  manual  dexterity  enriched  by  tem- 
perament. 

He  was,  indeed,  temperamental  or  nothing,  a man 
for  whom  study  could  do  no  more  than  superficially 
affect  the  fruits  of  instinct.  I suppose  he  had  some- 
thing of  the  modern  artist’s  flair  for  “documentation,” 
and  frequented  the  paths  of  historical  research  enough 
to  make  sure  of  his  facts  when  he  was  dealing  in  the 
costumes  and  accessories  of  bygone  social  epochs. 
But  there  was  nothing  in  him  of  the  pedantic  ar- 
chaeologist. What  would  he  have  done  with  the  in- 
numerable properties  and  authorities  on  which  some 
artists  of  to-day  lean  so  heavily?  Perhaps  he  would 
have  cherished  them,  if  he  could  have  fitted  them 
into  his  modest  studio,  but  I prefer  to  believe  that 
having  once  devoured  them  with  his  eyes  he  would 
have  let  them  go.  That,  at  all  events,  is  the  impres- 
sion I get  from  his  innumerable  designs,  every  one 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  327 


of  which  has  the  spontaneity  of  an  improvisation 
though  it  is  “all  of  a piece,”  a work  more  convincing 
than  the  most  elaborate  Academical  reconstruction 
is  apt  to  be.  His  people  wear  their  clothes  as  though 
they  had  a right  to  them,  and  move  about  in  scenes 
to  which  it  is  obvious  that  they  were  really  born. 
They  always  move  — a fact  which  must  have  done 
almost  as  much  as  Vierge’s  style  to  commend  him 
to  the  publishers  and  editors  he  sought  on  coming 
up  to  Paris  from  Madrid  in  search  of  work.  The 
military  painters,  men  like  De  Neuville  and  Detaille, 
might  have  envied  him  the  facile  truth  with  which 
he  sketched  the  stirring  incidents  of  the  Commune. 
He  loved  action,  if  we  may  judge  from  his  personal 
tastes  before  the  paralytic  stroke  that  practically 
chained  him  to  his  studio  in  his  prime,  and  a mobile 
subject  called  forth  his  best  efforts.  He  handled  it 
with  ease  and  swing.  In  my  collection  of  his  illus- 
trations there  is  a gouache  of  a refectory  at  the 
Salpetriere  in  which  the  note  of  movement  in  the 
central  figure,  a nurse  walking  rapidly  down  the 
room,  is  caught  up  and  repeated  in  the  attitudes 
and  fantastic  gestures  of  all  the  surrounding  patients. 
The  scene  has  a horrible  reality,  the  more  horrible 
because  nothing  in  it  is  exaggerated — Vierge  seems 
to  have  seized  in  a flash  the  most  natural  aspects 
of  his  unnatural  theme. 

He  used  the  same  insight  when  he  turned — as  he 
was  always  turning— to  more  romantic  material.  In 


328  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


romance  as  in  reality,  in  books  as  in  city  streets, 
hospitals  and  theatres,  or  wherever  else  his  insati- 
able eyes  carried  him,  he  looked  for  the  things  that 
mean  not  glamour  but  actual  life.  I miss  the  glamour, 
sometimes.  There  are  moments  in  which  I wish 
that  Vierge  had  put  more  tenderness  and  atmosphere 
into  his  work,  had  shown  more  feeling  for  sensuous 
beauty.  But  pursuit  of  these  less  tangible  things 
might  have  diverted  him  from  his  true  aim,  which  was 
to  make  his  figures  look  simply  human  and  natural, 
to  portray,  above  all  else,  character.  This  most  ex- 
pert of  technicians  was  never  content  with  tech- 
nique alone.  He  had  something  to  say  as  a great 
portrait-painter  has  something  to  say.  Looking  at 
some  of  his  little  nude  studies  you  would  infer  that 
he  had  no  desire  to  improve  upon  his  model,  to  make 
her  the  symbol  of  an  idea;  they  are  uncompromising 
renderings  of  fact.  His  pictures  of  Arabs  are  noth- 
ing more  than  impressions  of  the  picturesque.  In 
neither  case  is  any  imaginative  intention  visible. 
But  the  moment  he  drew  a figure  to  accompany  an 
author’s  text,  or  noted  one  in  the  highways  for  its 
human  interest,  he  made  it  a distinct  creation,  giv- 
ing it  features,  demeanor  and  a gait  which  could  not 
possibly  be  confused  with  the  attributes  of  any  other 
figure  in  his  crowded  gallery.  His  fecundity  in  this 
matter  has  not  yet  been  widely  enough  recognized. 
There  has  been  too  much  talk  of  his  technique,  and  too 
little  about  what  he  did  with  it.  Thus  his  “Pablo 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  329 


de  Segovia”  is  commended  to  the  student  as  a mas- 
terpiece of  pen  draughtsmanship.  I would  commend 
it  to  him  also  as  a masterpiece  of  illustration. 

The  book  offers  a crushing  rebuke  to  those  popular 
illustrators  who  work,  evidently,  each  from  a single 
formula,  and,  having  taken  the  town  with  a new 
type  of  pretty  girl,  fit  her  into  any  environment, 
any  period,  any  situation,  regardless  of  whether  she 
belongs  there  or  not.  Vierge  never  repeated  him- 
self. Every  personage  and  every  episode  in  Que- 
vedo’s  curious  novel  he  drew  with  a freshness  dis- 
closing the  liveliest  mental  activity.  In  nothing  does 
the  artist  show  his  sympathy  for  his  author  more 
than  in  his  humor.  It  takes  here  and  there  a Rabe- 
laisian turn,  but  mostly  it  is  of  the  grim  sardonic  sort 
characteristic  of  the  Spaniards.  Moreover,  though 
Vierge  delighted  in  a passage  of  comedy  involving 
several  actors,  he  could  give  as  free  play  to  his  humor 
in  the  delineation  of  a single  type.  He  could  draw 
you  a pious  matron  or  a mischievous  soubrette  with 
equal  whimsicality.  His  beggars  are  superb,  the 
finest  in  European  art  since  Callot  or  Hogarth.  In 
fact  he  seems  to  have  had  a special  feeling  for  the  life 
of  the  vagabond;  he  relished  the  grotesque  elements 
in  it,  and  sketched  it  in  “Pablo”  with  so  racy  a touch 
that  the  story  gains  new  vitality  from  his  embellish- 
ment of  it.  Yet  so  wide  was  his  scope  that  it  may 
be  doubted  if  the  figures  in  his  compositions  are  any 
more  effective  in  preserving  the  illusion  than  are  the 


330  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


architectural  or  landscape  backgrounds  against  which 
they  are  placed. 

In  his  treatment  of  these  things  he  used  great  re- 
straint. Indoors  or  out,  he  looked  only  for  the  essen- 
tials, and  put  them  in  their  proper  place  with  a judg- 
ment that  is  by  itself  a joy  to  the  connoisseur  of  the 
art  of  omission.  One  of  his  “Pablo”  drawings  has 
always  seemed  to  me  to  illustrate  this  point  partic- 
ularly well.  It  is  the  sketch  of  Pablo  in  converse 
with  a pedestrian  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  old 
Roman  aqueduct  at  Segovia.  Who  but  Vierge,  I 
wonder,  could  have  introduced  that  cyclopean  struc- 
ture into  a design,  the  picturesqueness  of  which  is 
so  light  in  hand,  with  such  aptness  and  such  skill? 
He  indicates  the  great  mass  of  masonry  with  lines 
of  the  utmost  delicacy,  keeps  the  motive  in  due  sub- 
ordination to  the  two  figures  in  the  foreground,  yet 
there  you  have  El  Puente  del  Diablo  in  all  its  stark 
weightiness  — an  instance,  if  ever  there  was  one,  of 
“local  color”  judiciously  applied.  Vierge  was  chary 
of  his  blacks  when  distributing  his  light  and  shade. 
The  richest  in  tone  of  all  his  “Pablo”  drawings  is 
the  night  scene  in  which  the  hero  has  his  encounter 
with  the  alguazils,  and  this  is  chiefly  remarkable  for 
its  subtly  manipulated  greys.  Fortuny,  executing 
this  design  with  brush  or  pen,  but  especially  with  the 
pen,  would  have  shattered  the  darkness  of  the  cavern- 
like street  with  violent  strokes  of  light,  and  would 
have  turned  the  shadows  into  pools  of  inkiness. 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  331 


Vierge  liked  the  quieter  key.  Even  when  his  scenes 
are  bathed  in  light  he  keeps  them,  somehow,  cool; 
there  is  no  glare,  there  is  no  shock  in  the  transition 
from  sunshine  into  shadow.  He  knew  all  that  there 
is  for  the  pen  draughtsman  to  know  about  values 
and  rendered  a Spanish  street  or  square,  or  open 
landscape,  with  a truthfulness  that  evades  many  a 
painter  using  a varied  palette.  Still  further  to  dem- 
onstrate his  fertility  and  his  deftness  of  hand,  he 
threw  in,  as  though  for  good  measure,  head  and  tail 
pieces  as  truly  decorative  in  conception  as  they  are 
polished  in  execution.  He  was  a master  of  the  vign- 
ette as  he  was  a master  of  the  full-dress  composi- 
tion; his  still  life  is  as  effective  in  its  way  as  his  most 
ambitious  studies  of  action  are  in  theirs. 

All  this  he  had  shown  in  the  pages  of  “Pablo”  and 
elsewhere  when  paralysis  deprived  him  of  the  use  of 
his  right  hand,  and  he  had  to  begin  life  all  over  again 
under  a terrible  handicap.  Training  himself  to  draw 
with  his  left  hand,  however,  he  became  proficient 
enough  not  simply  to  carry  on  his  work  as  before, 
but  to  undertake  an  heroic  task  — and  to  finish  it. 
This  was  the  illustration  of  “Don  Quixote,”  which 
he  undertook  for  the  Scribners  and  completed  on 
the  eve  of  his  death.  Going  slowly  over  the  plates 
in  this  book  as  the  four  volumes  went  through  the 
press,  a process  which,  as  it  happened,  I was  priv- 
ileged to  follow  from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  I 
marvelled  anew  that  an  artist  situated  as  he  was 


332  Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere 


could  have  had  the  courage  to  embark  upon  such  an 
enterprise,  to  say  nothing  of  seeing  it  through.  When 
I saw  him  in  his  studio  not  long  before  he  started  this 
series,  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  could  write  his 
name.  These  designs  make  it  plain  that,  having 
once  conquered  his  physical  disability,  he  recovered 
all  his  brilliancy  of  style,  and,  in  power  of  invention, 
made  a stride  forward. 

They  reveal  him  as  an  extraordinary  illustrator 
of  Cervantes,  following  the  immortal  narrative  with 
unerring  perception  for  the  right  passage  to  illustrate, 
and  with  as  sure  a faculty  for  giving  the  right  form 
to  his  illustration.  His  inspiration  never  flags;  there 
is  not  a perfunctory  drawing  in  the  whole  collection. 
The  gaunt  hero  of  the  Spanish  classic  carries  himself 
throughout  with  a kind  of  galliard  austerity,  but  his 
expression  is  never  stereotyped.  The  broad  humor 
so  well  exploited  in  illustrating  Quevedo  is  exchanged 
for  a kindlier  sense  of  fun,  and  at  the  same  time,  in 
setting  forth  those  wonderful  adventures,  Vierge  em- 
ployed all  his  old  vivacity,  all  his  dramatic  point. 
As  you  turn  the  pages  you  will  note  the  artist’s  free- 
dom in  grouping,  his  readiness  in  characterization, 
his  veracious  and  picturesque  touch  in  the  handling 
of  landscape  and  architecture,  and  his  adroitness  in 
the  fabrication  of  head  and  tail  pieces.  You  note, 
in  addition,  that  the  work  as  a whole  possesses  a 
richer  significance;  that  Vierge  truly  rose  to  the 
height  of  his  theme  and,  responding  to  the  finer  ap- 


Spanish  Art  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere  333 


peal  in  Cervantes  than  that  which  he  had  found  in 
Quevedo,  produced  a masterpiece  greater  even  than 
his  “Pablo.”  The  “Don  Quixote”  drawings  are 
lighter  in  tone  than  their  famous  predecessors ; I sup- 
pose because  long  confinement  to  the  studio  had 
unconsciously  adjusted  the  artist’s  vision  to  a more 
subdued  key.  But  this  only  heightens  the  charm 
of  his  designs,  making  the  delicacy  of  his  fine  more 
apparent.  The  publication  of  the  book,  marking 
the  crowning  achievement  of  a well-spent  life,  was  a 
memorable  event  in  the  history  of  illustrated  litera- 
ture. 


XI 

Secular  Types  in  Italian  Mural 
Decoration 

I.  Pintoricchio 

II.  Ghirlandajo 

III.  Carpaccio 

IV.  Tiepolo 


XI 


SECULAR  TYPES  IN  ITALIAN 
MURAL  DECORATION 

I 

PINTORICCHIO 

Of  Bernardino  di  Benedetto  di  Biagio,  called  il 
Pintoricchio,  or  the  Little  Painter,  Vasari  says  that 
“although  he  performed  many  labors,  and  received 
aid  from  many  persons,  he  had  nevertheless  a much 
greater  name  than  was  merited  by  his  works.”  Mod- 
ern criticism  has  refuted  Vasari,  but  has,  on  the  whole, 
made  reservations  leaving  the  Umbrian  painter  in  a 
somewhat  ambiguous  position.  Those  who  love  him 
rank  him  with  Perugino.  Those  who  view  him  with 
more  temperate  feelings  are  constrained  to  admit 
that  he  stands  somewhere  below  the  atrabilious  yet 
exquisitely  lyrical  painter  of  Citta  della  Pieve.  The 
exact  truth  lies,  of  course,  between  the  two  extremes, 
with  this  interesting  point  to  be  remembered:  that 
Pintoricchio,  for  all  his  declinations  from  this  stand- 
ard or  that  in  some  of  the  elements  of  his  art,  had 
nevertheless  a distinction  in  one  field  which  he  made 

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Italian  Mural  Decoration 


peculiarly  his  own.  One  begins  by  comparing  his 
decorations  with  those  of  Carpaccio  and  Raphael,  his 
Venetian  and  Roman  contemporaries,  but  one  ends 
by  perceiving  that  his  work  was  in  some  respects 
essentially  different  from  theirs,  and  therefore  to  be 
approached  by  a different  canon  of  criticism.  In- 
terest in  his  art,  perennial  for  all  close  students  of 
Italian  painting,  was  revived  for  the  public  at  large 
when  those  chambers  in  the  Vatican  in  which  for 
many  years  some  important  decorations  of  his  had 
been  hidden,  were  opened  in  1897.  They  were  ex- 
ecuted for  the  Borgian  Pope,  Alexander  VI,  and  in 
more  ways  than  one  they  glorify  the  sinister  family 
to  which  that  Pontiff  belonged.  Not  only  is  Alex- 
ander himself  portrayed  in  one  of  the  frescos,  but 
in  the  design  representing  St.  Catherine  before  the 
Emperor  the  latter  is  impersonated  by  Csesar  Borgia, 
and  Lucrezia,  of  edifying  memory,  figures  as  the 
Saint.  The  five  apartments  in  which  the  surviving 
members  of  Pintoricchio’s  scheme  exist  make  part 
of  a suite  of  six  which  belong  to  the  Vatican  library 
and  have  always  been  specially  designated  as  the 
Borgia  apartments.  Pintoricchio  completed  them 
in  1498.  It  was  Pope  Leo  XIII  who  made  himself 
responsible  for  the  comparatively  slight  restoration 
they  needed  and  had  the  rooms  put  in  appropriate 
condition. 

Pintoricchio  was  born  at  Perugia  in  1454.  He 
died  at  Siena  in  1513,  according  to  Vasari,  from 


Italian  Mural  Decoration 


339 


ignoble  vexation,  but,  on  other  testimony,  from  hun- 
ger and  neglect,  his  wife  and  her  lover  having  shut 
him  out  of  the  house  when  he  was  already  ill.  Vasari 
states  that  Perugino  was  his  master,  but  it  has  been 
pointed  out  that  Perugino  was  only  eight  years  older 
than  Pintoricchio,  and  that  the  latter  was  more  prob- 
ably a pupil  of  Bonfigli  or  Fiorenzo  di  Lorenzo.  Be 
this  as  it  may  — and  the  hypothesis  of  Pintoricchio’s 
having  studied  under  Fiorenzo  di  Lorenzo  seems  to 
me  particularly  plausible  — it  is  plain  from  internal 
evidence  that  he  must  have  profited  by  Perugino’s 
example,  and  that  he  must  also  have  obtained  in- 
spiration from  companionship  with  the  young  Ra- 
phael, whom  he  would  have  met  in  Perugino’s  bottega. 
These  points,  however,  cannot  be  traversed  minutely 
here,  nor  can  I go  over  the  old  controversy  about 
the  share  which  Raphael  may  or  may  not  have  had 
in  the  Piccolomini  frescos  at  Siena.  Vasari,  with 
his  genial  recklessness  in  playing  ducks  and  drakes 
with  another  man’s  reputation,  has  been  responsible 
for  so  many  fruitless  burrowings  among  the  records 
of  Italian  art  that  his  innuendoes  about  the  Siena 
decorations  may  be  ignored  in  this  brief  essay,  at 
least.  What  is  more  important  is  to  observe  that  in 
Siena,  as  in  the  Vatican  and  in  the  Church  of  Santa 
Maria  del  Popolo,  at  Rome,  the  work  left  by  Pin- 
toricchio is  of  a sort  to  justify  him  against  all  the  his- 
torians, from  Vasari  down,  who  are  disposed  to  im- 
pugn his  originality.  In  these  three  places,  and  in 


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Italian  Mural  Decoration 


some  others,  Pintoricchio  can  afford  to  snap  his  fingers 
at  this  kind  of  criticism.  He  had  qualities  akin  to 
those  of  Perugino  and  Raphael  and  was,  in  fact,  as  I 
have  indicated,  strengthened  in  his  art  by  their  ex- 
ample, but  he  never  leaned  upon  them,  he  stood  on 
his  own  feet.  One  more  citation  from  Vasari  and 
I have  done  with  that  indispensable  but  sometimes 
exasperating  chronicler.  “Bernardino  was  much  in 
the  habit,”  he  says,  “of  decorating  his  pictures  with 
ornaments  in  relief  covered  with  gold,  for  the  satis- 
faction of  persons  who  understood  but  little  of  such 
matters,  to  the  end  that  they  might  have  a more 
showy  appearance,  a thing  which  is  most  unsuitable 
to  painting.  Having  depicted  a story  from  the  life 
of  Santa  Caterina  in  the  above-named  apartments 
[in  the  Vatican],  he  executed  the  triumphal  arches  of 
Rome,  therefore,  in  relief,  and  painted  the  figures  in 
such  a manner  that  the  objects  which  should  dimin- 
ish are  brought  more  prominently  forward  than  those 
others  which  should  be  larger  to  the  eye,  a grievous 
heresy  in  our  art.” 

Making  due  allowance  for  Vasari’s  offended  ortho- 
doxy in  this  passage,  we  reach  in  it,  nevertheless, 
one  of  the  crucial  elements  in  Pintoricchio’s  genius. 
Other  Italians  had  employed  raised  details  in  their 
work,  in  easel  pictures,  as  well  as  in  decorative  panels. 
Pintoricchio  used  them  as  an  important  factor  in 
work  executed  on  a large  scale,  depending  upon  them 
for  much  of  his  effect.  His  gilding  was  devised  as 


Italian  Mural  Decoration 


341 


though  by  inspiration  for  that  splendid  pageant  which 
was  his  aim  and  for  the  creation  of  which  he  is  to 
be  regarded  as  apart  from  all  his  countrymen.  The 
Borgia  rooms  being  somewhat  similar  in  construc- 
tion to  Raphael’s  famous  “Stanze,”  and  possessing 
surfaces,  curved  and  flat,  that  are  comparable  to  the 
surfaces  of  the  latter,  they  have  sometimes  been  men- 
tioned in  the  same  breath  with  them.  They  are  poles 
apart.  Raphael  had  essentially  a philosophic  mind, 
he  unfolded  symbolic  compositions  upon  the  walls  of 
the  Vatican,  and  the  philosophers,  almost  as  much 
as  the  artists  and  critics,  have  pondered  his  work. 
Pintoricchio  threw  himself  into  what  might  be  called 
ecclesiastical  metaphysics  in  the  Borgia  frescos  — 
probably  because  Pope  Alexander  ordered  him  to  do 
so  — but  the  key  to  the  work  is  not  metaphysical,  it 
is  one  of  narration  purely.  Our  artist  was  a born 
story-teller.  He  had  proved  this  before  he  came  to 
Rome,  when  painting  the  Piccolomini  frescos  at 
Siena.  He  proceeded  to  elaborate  all  kinds  of  lofty 
schemes  in  the  Vatican.  The  decorations  celebrate 
solemn  religious  themes,  saintly  martyrdoms  and 
even  more  esoteric  ideas  of  a classical  and  learned 
nature.  But  while  it  would  no  doubt  be  legitimate  to 
appraise  the  Borgia  designs  as  imaginative  schemes 
imperfectly  done,  it  seems  more  just  to  regard  them 
— as  one  regards  the  walls  of  the  library  at  Siena  — 
as  forming  a fragmentary  pageant.  This  was  the 
thing  that  Pintoricchio,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 


342 


Italian  Mural  Decoration 


always  aimed  at;  this  is  the  thing  which  he  unmis- 
takably secures.  He  paints  a procession,  he  paints 
the  movements  of  picturesque  groups,  and  he  still 
quivers  with  the  life  of  his  ornate  time.  Just  what 
the  groups  are  doing,  just  what  they  signify,  we  can- 
not always  tell.  The  frescos  of  the  Vatican  will  not 
yield  to  the  analysis  which  sets  the  decorations  of 
Siena  before  us  as  a sort  of  historical  document.  I 
have  called  him  a born  story-teller.  In  so  far  as  his 
meaning  is  obscure  he  belies  the  epithet.  But  he 
has  all  of  the  story-teller’s  vividness,  all  his  skill  in 
making  companies  of  men  and  women  concrete,  plau- 
sible, human.  We  can  fancy  him  appalled  at  the 
Pope’s  request  for  one  symbolical  design  or  another, 
and  then  blithely  going  to  work  with  no  other  thought 
than  to  put  the  personages  demanded  by  his  master 
into  natural,  genial  attitudes,  as  so  many  actors  in  a 
beautiful  and  picturesque  scene.  He  lacks  imagina- 
tion, yes,  and  there  is  rarely  a hint  of  dramatic  inge- 
nuity in  his  work,  but  he  is  a modern  of  the  moderns 
in  the  spontaneity  of  his  accent,  in  the  naturalness 
of  his  crowds. 

Having  decided  to  set  forth  his  group,  having  laid 
out  his  background  of  landscape  and  architecture, 
having  evolved,  as  it  were,  another  page  of  his  pic- 
ture-book, Pintoricchio  drew  upon  those  resources 
which  Vasari  thought  so  heretical.  He  had  others. 
He  had  brilliant  coloring  — some  of  it  among  the  most 
brilliant  of  the  Renaissance  — and  he  had  draughts- 


Italian  Mural  Decoration 


343 


manship,  fortifying,  in  its  turn,  a happy  gift  of  char- 
acterization when  it  came  to  the  introduction  into 
his  design  of  such  tangible  types  as  Lucrezia  or  Caesar 
or  the  Pope  himself.  But  the  raised  details  were 
necessary  to  him,  they  helped  him  to  get  that  warmth 
and  even  that  splendor  which  are  as  the  crown  and 
finish  to  his  art.  The  eye  lingers  over  the  individual 
figures  in  his  compositions  as  it  lingers  over  those 
in  the  pictures  of  the  Bellini,  of  Carpaccio,  of  dozens 
of  Italians  from  Botticelli  to  Tiepolo  and  Longhi. 
But  most  of  all  the  spectator  is  aware  of  a broad  and 
beautiful  impression  as  of  something  gorgeous  pass- 
ing by,  of  glimpses  into  a quaint  and  yet  majestic 
world  where  amazing  people  jostle  one  another  on 
their  way  to  the  execution  of  some  business  or  other 
— one  does  not  quite  know  what  it  is  and  does  not 
quite  care.  Of  course,  this  purely  sensuous  appeal 
of  Pintoricchio ’s  has  its  drawbacks.  A little  of  Ra- 
phael’s intellectuality  would  be  welcome.  Something 
of  Perugino’s  tender  Umbrian  charm  would  transmog- 
rify the  whole  work.  But  tenderness  in  Pintoricchio 
was  always  limited.  It  comes  to  the  surface  fitfully 
in  some  of  his  smaller  paintings,  but  when  he  is  work- 
ing as  at  Siena  and  in  the  Vatican  the  essential  spirit 
of  the  man  dominates  him  and  puts  the  lyrical  note 
into  the  background  while  a frankly  material  feeling 
comes  to  the  front.  Fortunately  the  materialism 
is  never  gross.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  a touching 
naivete  about  Pintoricchio  even  in  his  most  superb 


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Italian  Mural  Decoration 


flights  of  courtly  pride.  He  may  have  remained  more 
or  less  insensible  to  the  ecstatic  fascination  of  the 
Umbrian  landscape  which  Raphael  found  it  hard  to 
forget  in  the  midst  of  his  Roman  triumphs;  he  may 
have  missed  the  last  secret  of  that  feminine  witchery, 
that  pensive  beauty,  which  the  business-like  Peru- 
gino  knew  and  worshipped,  for  all  his  hardness  and 
sordid,  jealous  passion.  But  he  was  an  Italian  liv- 
ing in  the  time  of  the  Renaissance,  he  was  quick, 
receptive,  full  of  lively  feeling,  and  sensitive  to  the  spell 
of  beauty  in  ail  but.  its  most  poetic  relations.  The 
upshot  of  it  all  is  that  he  is  neither  a major  nor  a 
minor  painter,  but  one  of  those  rare  individualities 
who  through  the  richness  of  their  merits  and  the 
qualities  of  their  defects  become  inexplicably  en- 
deared where  greater  men  are  regarded  with  not  half 
so  much  affection.  The  Siena  frescos  would  alone 
have  kept  him  famous.  The  opening  of  the  Borgia 
apartments,  the  decorations  of  which  are  in  very 
nearly  as  perfect  a state  of  preservation  as  those  of 
the  Piccolomini  library,  have  heightened  and  ex- 
tended his  renown. 

Some  artists  are  disposed  to  regard  the  decorations 
of  the  fifteenth  century  as  spent  forces,  with  nothing 
in  them  for  modern  emulation,  but,  as  a matter  of 
fact,  they  are  full  of  living  inspiration.  Puvis  de 
Chavannes  recognized  this,  going  even  further  back 
than  to  Pintoricchio  and  profiting  by  the  example  of 
the  Giotteschi.  I have  referred  to  Pintoricchio ’s 


Italian  Mural  Decoration 


345 


modernity  of  spirit.  He  had  also,  and  so  had  Car- 
paccio, Mantegna,  Raphael,  Signorelli,  Sodoma,  Mi- 
chael Angelo,  and  Perugino,  extraordinary  modernities 
of  design.  That  is  to  say,  these  painters  exercised 
exactly  the  arts  of  composition  which  are  required, 
to-day  in  decorative  painting.  Moreover,  since  mod- 
ern mural  painting  — as  the  French  have  shown  much 
more  than  the  Americans  — must  concern  itself  with 
the  narration  of  historical  events  and  with  the  rep- 
resentation of  scenes  from  actual  life,  there  is  obvious 
benefit  to  be  derived  from  men  who  were  above  all 
things  skilful  in  the  adaptation  of  virile  themes  to 
architectural  spaces.  Raphael  was  a philosophic 
painter,  but  in  the  famous  scene  of  the  conflagration 
in  the  Borgo  he  handled  prosaic  material  as  effect- 
ively as  he  did  the  figures  of  his  “Parnassus.”  Pin- 
toricchio  had  remarkable  ability  in  this  grouping  of 
unimaginative  subjects  with  appropriateness  to  the 
form  of  his  wall.  The  Siena  decorations  glorify  the 
travels  of  Aeneas  Piccolomini,  and  some  of  the  epi- 
sodes treated  are  of  the  most  matter-of-fact  descrip- 
tion, but  the  figures  are  disposed  between  the  divi- 
ding pilasters  with  as  much  regard  for  the  general 
effect  of  the  whole  chamber  as  though  they  were  parts 
of  a conventional  design.  In  his  strictly  conven- 
tional work,  too,  Pintoricchio  has  much  to  teach  the 
moderns,  just  as  Raphael  has  much  to  teach  them  in 
the  “Loggie”  of  the  Vatican.  Both  men  appreciated 
the  value  of  arabesques  and  of  geometrical  patterns 


346 


Italian  Mural  Decoration 


skilfully  applied.  In  the  Vatican  the  attention  is 
naturally  concentrated  upon  Pintoricchio’s  paint- 
ings, but  his  stucco  ornamentation  and  his  laying 
out  of  the  ceilings  will  be  recognized  as  equally  char- 
acteristic of  his  genius.  He,  with  all  his  astonishing 
facility  in  purely  pictorial  directions,  was,  neverthe- 
less, incapable  of  the  loosely  scattered  effects  to 
which  the  modern  mural  painter  is  so  prone.  He 
devised  a picture-book  at  Siena  and  another  one  in 
the  Borgia  apartments,  but  in  both  cases  he  bound 
the  pages  together  so  symmetrically,  with  so  pene- 
trating a sense  of  their  interdependence,  that,  while 
he  falls  far  short  of  the  grandeur  of  Raphael,  he  is 
comparable  to  him  in  the  unity  of  his  work  with  the 
architecture  in  which  it  is  set. 

n 

GHIRLAND  AJ  0 

Amongst  the  Florentine  painters  of  the  Renais- 
sance Ghirlandajo  occupies  a position  indubitably 
honorable,  yet  not  to  this  day  permanently  fixed. 
Like  Pintoricchio  he  has  his  rather  grudging  critics. 
For  one  who  will  whole-heartedly  laud  him  there  are 
generally  several  who  will  patronize  his  art,  if  they 
do  not  dismiss  him  with  something  like  contempt  as 
“a  mere  illustrator.”  Well,  as  we  have  seen  in  our 
brief  survey  of  the  work  of  Pintoricchio,  illustration, 


Italian  Mural  Decoration 


347 


according  to  the  hypothesis  of  the  old  Italian  mural 
decorators,  could  take  on  a not  by  any  means  neg- 
ligible significance.  In  the  hands  of  Domenico  Ghir- 
landajo  it  was  made  extraordinarily  beguiling. 

This  painter,  who  was  born  in  1449  and  died  forty 
years  later,  was  the  son  of  Tommaso  Bigordi,  a gold- 
smith, who  was  known  as  “del  Ghirlandajo”  from 
the  gold  and  silver  garlands  made  in  his  workshop 
for  the  Florentine  ladies  to  wear  in  their  hair.  The 
lad  was  apprenticed  to  his  father’s  craft,  but  he  soon 
turned  to  painting,  under  the  instruction  of  Baldo- 
vinetti.  He  was  quick  and  clever  and  readily  made 
a career  for  himself.  As  this  developed  he  showed 
that  he  had  profited  by  study  of  the  works  of  men 
greater  than  his  chosen  master.  In  his  earlier  pro- 
ductions the  influence  of  Masaccio  has  been  traced, 
as  well  as  that  of  Verrocchio.  He  was  not  to  disclose 
a genius  comparable  with  that  of  either  of  those  two 
great  painters,  and  this  not  simply  because  he  lacked 
their  power  in  respect  to  style,  but  because  he  had 
nothing  like  their  subtler  resources.  He  was  not  a 
high-souled  creative  genius,  and,  in  fact,  if  you  begin 
to  compare  him  with  this  or  that  Renaissance  type 
of  the  noblest  calibre  you  steadily  expose  his  limita- 
tions. He  has  not  an  atom  of  the  linear  strength 
and  felicity  of  Botticelli.  He  has  none  of  the  Roman 
austerity  and  power,  none  of  the  plastic  grace  of 
Mantegna.  But  it  would  be  manifestly  unfair  to 
dwell  on  the  things  which  Ghirlandajo  lacked.  The 


34§ 


Italian  Mural  Decoration 


important  point  is  to  apprehend  him  for  what  he 
was.  The  most  recent  and  on  the  whole  the  most 
favorable  of  his  biographers,  Mr.  Gerald  S.  Davies, 
concisely  and  accurately  describes  him  as  “the  sim- 
ple, straightforward  historian  of  the  outward  ap- 
pearance of  the  life  of  the  Renaissance  as  he  saw  it 
and  knew  it  in  the  town  which  he  knew  best  and  loved 
best  — his  own  Florence.”  In  this  character  he  dis- 
tinguished himself  with  a sympathy  and  a skill  ma- 
king him  invaluable  to  the  student  of  his  time,  and, 
what  is  more,  delightful  to  the  lover  of  Renaissance 
painting  who  is  not  obsessed  by  a desire  to  distribute 
pedagogic  marks  of  merit  among  all  the  members  of 
the  Florentine  school. 

He  was  an  adept  at  pictorial  narrative,  and  he  had 
a passion  for  portraiture,  as  well  as  a kind  of  loving 
flair  for  the  details  of  costume  and  what  we  may  call 
the  furniture  of  pictures.  His  frescos  in  the  Sistine 
Chapel  and  elsewhere  are  dignified  performances, 
imbued  with  sincere  if  not  profound  emotion.  Mr. 
Davies,  discussing  the  question  of  what  his  painter 
made  of  the  figure  of  Christ,  is  perhaps  unnecessarily 
analytic.  He  finds  in  Ghirlandajo’s  ideal  “more  of 
manhood  than  in  the  sweet  and  feminine  beauty  of 
Perugino,  but  far  less  of  sorrowful  dignity  and  depth 
of  feeling,  far  less  of  the  Divine,  than  in  his  great 
contemporary  Leonardo.”  He  goes  on  to  bring 
Piero  della  Francesca  and  Melozzo  da  Forli  into  the 
argument.  All  this  is  beside  the  point.  It  is  better 


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to  face  the  fact  that  Ghirlandajo  had  no  great  spir- 
itual inspiration  and  have  done  with  it.  One  may 
grant,  also,  with  the  same  promptitude,  that  he  was 
no  more  the  master  of  composition  than  he  was  the 
master  of  line;  but  his  work  has  the  vitality  of  work 
that  is  founded  on  life.  Though  he  was  not  a draughts- 
man or  a designer  of  genius,  he  drew  and  designed 
well  enough,  he  put  his  compositions  together  in  life- 
like fashion  and  bodied  forth  his  figures  not  only 
truthfully  but  with  some  breadth  and  nervous  force. 
He  was  a competent  craftsman,  a painter  who  knew 
how  to  fill  a given  space  in  such  wise  that  you  can- 
not pass  his  decorations  by,  but  must  pause  and  look 
with  ever-growing  sympathy  upon  his  intimate  scenes 
and  friendly,  human  personages. 

Witness,  for  example,  that  fresco  of  his  in  Santa 
Maria  Novella,  “The  Birth  of  the  Virgin  Mary,” 
which  shows  him  at  his  best.  Could  anything  be 
more  beguiling  than  this  interior,  in  which  St.  Anne 
and  the  women  about  her  are  put  before  us  with  no 
pretence  whatever  that  they  have  not  been  studied 
from  Ghirlandajo’s  contemporaries  in  a Florentine 
palazzo?  The  maiden  who  advances  toward  the 
nurses  and  their  little  charge  is  believed  to  be  Lodo- 
vica  Tornabuoni,  but  even  if  her  name  had  never  been 
surmised  we  would  know  that  in  this  figure,  as  in 
every  other  included  in  the  composition,  the  painter 
had  made  a portrait.  That,  in  fact,  was  what  he  was 
always  doing,  and  in  the  mass  of  his  work  any  num- 


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ber  of  personages  have  been  identified.  In  the  fresco 
of  “Zacharias  and  the  Angel/’  for  example,  also  in 
Santa  Maria  Novella,  we  may  see  not  only  divers 
members  of  the  Tornabuoni  and  Tornaquinci  families, 
but  the  noted  humanists,  Cristoforo  Landini,  Poli- 
ziano  and  Marsilio  Ficino. 

Because  Ghirlandajo  was  content  to  bring  these 
people  into  his  paintings,  grouping  them  adroitly  and 
with  animation,  but  showing  no  poignant  emotion 
and  no  rare  inventive  faculty,  and  because,  finally, 
his  style  is  not  far  above  the  pedestrian  order,  he  is 
frequently  dismissed,  as  I have  said,  as  just  an  il- 
lustrator. But  are  not  his  illustrations  charming? 
Was  he  not  an  accomplished  painter  according  to  his 
lights?  Could  he  not,  on  occasion,  fashion  a Ma- 
donna full  of  matronly  dignity  and  touched  with  a 
grave  sweetness?  Moreover,  is  not  that  portraiture 
of  his  something  in  itself  altogether  captivating?  No 
merely  bourgeois  hand  could  have  produced  that  lov- 
able portrait  of  an  old  man  and  his  grandson  which  is 
preserved  in  the  Louvre,  or  that  exquisite  profile,  in 
Mr.  Morgan’s  collection,  of  Giovanna  degli  Albizzi. 
Ghirlandajo  is  one  of  those  painters  who  we  know 
perfectly  well  are  not  demigods,  like  Michael  An- 
gelo or  Leonardo,  but  whose  lesser  gifts  are  equally 
authentic  and  whose  services  to  us  it  is  foolish  to 
underestimate  and  vulgar  to  scorn. 


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III 

CARPACCIO 

When  Pompeo  Molmenti  and  his  friend  Gustav 
Ludwig  were  writing  their  fine  biography  of  Vittore 
Carpaccio  they  delved  deep  into  Venetian  history 
and  brought  to  light  all  the  facts  about  their  hero 
that  are  likely  ever  to  be  known.  But  the  prettiest 
“find”  in  their  volume  is  a passage  of  modern  origin, 
a fragment  of  a letter  by  Burne-Jones.  “Of  all 
things,”  he  writes  to  Lady  Lewis,  “do  go  to  the  little 
chapel  of  S.  Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni,  where  the  Car- 
paccios are.  The  tiniest  church  that  ever  was,  like 
a very  small  London  drawing-room  — but  with  pic- 
tures!!! And  whenever  you  see  him  give  him  my 
love.”  It  is  in  just  this  spirit  that  it  is  well  to  ap- 
proach the  work  of  the  old  Venetian  painter.  If  he 
is  anything  he  is  lovable,  a type  of  peculiarly  sweet 
and  winning  art. 

Carpaccio,  born  in  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, touches  hands,  so  to  say,  on  one  side  with  the 
tradition  of  the  Venetian  primitives,  and  on  the  other 
with  that  of  the  golden  age.  He  preserved  in  his 
work  much  of  the  naivete  of  the  formative  period  in 
the  history  of  the  school.  We  read  of  him  as  being 
summoned  in  company  with  his  master,  Lazzaro 
Bastiani,  to  appraise  Giorgione’s  paintings  on  the 
facade  of  the  Fondaco  dei  Tedeschi,  and  this  episode 


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vividly  brings  home  to  us  the  fact  of  his  contact  with 
the  movement  which  owed  so  much  to  the  painter 
of  Castelfranco  and  to  Titian.  Yet  Carpaccio  never 
developed  the  glowing  tones  which  were  ultimately 
to  dominate  Venetian  painting.  His  color,  which  is 
sometimes  exquisite,  is,  on  the  whole,  restrained. 
Indeed,  the  whole  character  of  his  work  is  that  of  an 
artist  in  no  wise  impassioned,  but  trusting  always  to 
careful  observation  of  the  world  in  which  he  lived. 

The  fates  conspired  to  give  him  precisely  the  op- 
portunities calculated  to  be  favorable  to  the  develop- 
ment of  his  gifts.  We  know  that  he  was  employed 
with  Gentile  and  Giovanni  Bellini  and  others  to  dec- 
orate the  Hall  of  the  Great  Council  in  the  Ducal 
Palace  with  historical  compositions,  but  even  if  his 
contributions  to  this  vast  scheme  had  not  been  des- 
troyed by  the  great  fire  of  1577  we  would  have  the 
essentials  of  his  art  in  those  works  which  he  produced 
for  one  or  another  of  the  fraternities  conspicuous  in 
the  social  and  religious  life  of  his  day.  These  or- 
ganizations wanted  a painter  of  picture-books,  and 
such  a painter  they  found  in  Carpaccio. 

It  was  customary  in  old  Venice  for  men  and  women 
to  form  themselves  into  schools  or  societies  dedicated 
to  the  observance  of  religious  duties  and  to  the  for- 
warding of  good  works.  Always  these  bodies  en- 
rolled themselves  beneath  the  standard  of  some  saint. 
Thus  the  “Scuola  of  Devotion  of  St.  Ursula”  framed 
its  statutes  and  rules  at  once  in  the  service  of  the 


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Madonna  and  in  that  of  the  martyred  Ursula.  These 
were  also  mutual-benefit  societies,  as  may  be  seen 
from  the  decree  of  the  Council  of  Ten  relating  to  the 
Dalmatian  Scuola  officially  recognized  in  1451. 

Having  heard  the  devout  and  humble  petition  of  cer- 
tain Sclavonian  sailors,  resident  in  this  blessed  city  of 
Venice,  moved  by  piety,  knowing  and  observing  the  in- 
finite variety  of  men  of  their  nation  . . . stricken  to  death, 
or  sickness,  who  perish  of  necessity  and  hunger,  having 
no  support,  nor  help  from  any  one  in  this  world  because 
they  are  aliens  . . . leave  was  implored  by  the  said  Scla- 
vonians  to  form  in  Venice  a Brotherhood,  otherwise  a 
Scuola,  according  to  the  manner  of  the  other  small  Scuole 
in  honor  of  Messer  S.  George  and  Messer  S.  Tryphonius 
in  the  church  of  Messer  S.  John  of  the  Templars  ...  by 
means  of  which  the  said  supplicants  can  receive  and  hold 
alms  for  the  support  of  such  of  their  brethren,  and  besides 
that  the  said  brethren  can  go  and  carry  to  burial  the  said 
brethren  for  the  Love  of  God,  and  can  place  their  corpses 
in  the  vaults  of  the  said  Scuola. 

As  these  Scuole  waxed  the  more  popular  and  pros- 
perous they  built  their  places  of  meeting  the  more 
luxuriously,  and,  of  course,  sought  the  aid  of  art. 
Carpaccio  appears  to  have  become  a kind  of  painter 
in  ordinary  to  the  Scuole.  For  the  brethren  of  St. 
Ursula  he  painted  the  canvases  which  were  originally 
placed  on  the  walls  of  a building  erected  beside  the 
church  of  SS.  Giovanni  e Paolo,  but  which  are  now 
housed  in  the  Academy.  For  the  Dalmatians  afore- 
said he  made  the  series  which  may  still  be  seen  at  S. 
Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni.  For  the  Albanians  in  Ven- 


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ice  he  produced  the  series,  now  scattered,  illustrating 
the  life  of  the  Virgin.  He  painted  other  pictures,  and 
some  of  them,  like  the  “Presentation”  for  the  Church 
of  San  Giobbe,  now  in  the  Academy,  are  superb  mon- 
uments to  his  genius,  but  you  get  the  fullest  sense  of 
his  character  as  an  artist  from  the  “picture-books” 
he  made  for  the  Scuole. 

I call  them  picture-books,  because  in  each  set 
of  decorations  that  he  painted  he  gave  himself  up 
to  narrative,  telling  his  story  in  a succession  of  scenes, 
which  might  have,  now  and  again,  a certain  mystical 
significance,  but  which  he  always  interpreted  as 
closely  as  possible  in  terms  of  ordinary  Venetian  life. 
He  copied  the  gait  and  demeanor  of  his  contempo- 
raries, reproduced  their  costumes  with  minute  care, 
and  in  his  accessories,  as  in  his  broad  effect,  sought 
an  intimately  realistic  impression.  There  is  an  al- 
most domestic  note  in  his  religious  designs.  His  St. 
Ursula  asleep  in  bed  might  be  a kinswoman  in  his 
own  house,  and  the  picture  he  made  of  St.  Jerome  in 
his  study  was  doubtless  based  on  a room  familiar 
to  the  painter  in  its  every  detail.  Carpaccio  had  a 
fine  sense  of  composition,  which  comes  out  magnif- 
icently in  a painting  like  the  St.  Giobbe  altar-piece 
mentioned  above,  but  in  his  Scuole  pictures  his  feel- 
ing for  design  is  subordinated  to  his  eager  desire  to 
tell  a straightforward  and  artless  story.  This  is 
where  his  naivete  comes  in.  He  is  too  keen  on  his 
narrative  to  worry  overmuch  about  questions  of  form 


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and  balance.  Some  time  ago  Mr.  Sidney  Colvin 
pointed  out  resemblances  between  episodes  in  works 
by  Carpaccio  and  drawings  made  by  one  Reuvich  for 
Breydenbach’s  “Peregrinatio  in  Terram  Sanctam,” 
printed  at  Mayence  in  i486.  If  he  plagiarized  it 
was  only  in  the  most  innocent  and  childlike  fashion 
and  with  no  sacrifice  of  his  individuality.  He  simply 
took  what  would  help  him  to  build  up  his  simple  tale, 
making  it  the  more  natural  and  picturesque.  There 
was,  in  fact,  a good  deal  of  the  ingenious  craftsman 
about  Carpaccio. 

There  was  also  a good  deal  of  heart,  of  warm  and 
tender  feeling  for  religious  things.  His  spirituality 
was  none  the  less  genuine  because  he  expressed  it  in 
pictures  reflecting  Venetian  types  and  ways.  He  was 
profoundly  sincere.  The  criticism  which  would  pig- 
eon-hole and  label  every  manifestation  of  art  would 
assign  to  him  a modest  place  in  the  hierarchy  of 
Venetian  painting.  But  it  is  wiser  to  take  him  for 
what  he  is;  to  rejoice  in  his  simple  realism  and  his 
unworldly  spirit,  and  ignore  the  question  as  to  his 
relative  value. 


IV 

TIEPOLO 

It  is  a long  step  from  Carpaccio  to  Tiepolo.  In- 
deed, a great  gulf  stretches  between  the  naive  illus- 
trator of  fifteenth-century  manners,  with  his  simple 
but  sincere  religious  sentiment,  and  the  worldly,  even 


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pagan  artist  who  gayly  decorated  the  churches,  pal- 
aces and  villas  of  Venice  in  her  decadence.  But  that 
gulf  is  easily  bridged  where  types  of  authentic  power 
are  concerned.  The  transition  from  Carpaccio  to 
Tiepolo  is,  after  all,  that  from  one  true  artist  to 
another,  a transition  never  impeded  by  differences 
of  temperament.  To  sit  for  a quiet  hour  in  that  little 
church  of  San  Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni,  with  mind 
and  heart  attuned  to  the  pure  and  almost  childlike 
inspiration  of  Carpaccio’s  paintings  there,  and  to 
plunge  immediately  afterward  into  Tiepolo’s  hectic 
monde  is  to  feel,  momentarily  at  least,  that  a rather 
unedifying  descent  has  been  made.  But  the  observ- 
er’s mood  is  soon  changed.  He  sees  that  Tiepolo’s 
violence,  after  Carpaccio’s  tranquillity,  may  be  the 
sign  of  a lower  nature,  but  is  also  compatible  with  the 
exercise  of  great  artistic  gifts.  Indeed,  his  impres- 
sions of  the  older  master  threaten  to  fade,  for  he  per- 
ceives that,  as  a technician,  as  a painter,  Carpaccio 
was  scarce  qualified  to  grind  Tiepolo’s  colors.  The 
eighteenth-century  decorator  may  not  have  had  a 
great  soul,  he  may  not  have  had  the  faintest  spiritual 
emotion,  but  he  was  a prodigious  man  of  his  hands. 
Without  underestimating  his  mentality,  we  may  still 
see  in  him  just  the  consummate  and  prolific  crafts- 
man. We  recognize  in  him,  too,  that  central  virtue 
of  sane  vigor  which  will  lend  a kind  of  dignity  even 
to  an  artist  not  exceptionally  dowered  with  intel- 
lectual or  imaginative  power. 

There  is  a curious  contrast  between  the  man  and 


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his  time.  When  Tiepolo  was  born,  late  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  the  glory  of  Venice  had  begun  to 
wane.  Elements  of  corruption  were  at  work  in  her 
political  and  industrial  life.  Manners  were  deterio- 
rating. The  old  heroic  traits  of  the  people  had  prac- 
tically disappeared  and  an  enfeebled  populace  had 
only  the  artists  it  deserved.  The  splendid  tradition 
of  Veronese  was  seemingly  as  dead  as  nail  in  door. 
Mediocrity  triumphed.  Trivial  feeling  and  mechan- 
ical facility  could  no  further  go  than  in  the  crowded 
yet  strangely  empty  compositions  of  a Bastiano  Ricci 
or  a Gregorio  Lazzarini.  Then  appeared  Giovanni 
Battista  Tiepolo,  like  a portent  in  the  sky,  and  eight- 
eenth-century Venetian  art  was  conclusively  rescued 
from  its  sad  estate.  There  were  other  painters  who 
were  to  make  the  period  memorable  — Canaletto  and 
Guardi,  with  their  pictures  of  the  lagoons  and  the 
monuments  of  the  city;  Rosalba,  with  her  bewitch- 
ing portraits,  and,  in  the  later  years  of  the  century, 
Pietro  Longhi,  with  his  vivacious  souvenirs  of  every- 
day familiar  life.  But  it  was  only  Tiepolo  who  pos- 
sessed positive  genius;  he  alone  it  was  who  revived 
something  of  the  splendor  of  an  earlier  day. 

It  is  a pity  that  we  cannot  know  more  about  the 
man,  about  his  personality  and  private  life.  Signor 
Molmenti,  his  efficient  biographer,  is  zealous  in  re- 
search, but  he  has  very  little  to  communicate  on  the 
more  intimate  side  of  Tiepolo’s  career.  We  know 
that  he  came  from  an  humble  and  even  obscure 


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family,  for  all  that  he  bore  a name  illustrious  in  the 
annals  of  the  Venetian  nobility.  We  know  that  he 
received  instruction  from  Lazzarini  and  that  he  mar- 
ried a sister  of  Guardi’s.  But,  for  the  rest,  his  story 
is  no  more  than  a record  of  his  work.  One  fact  is 
made  plain  by  that  record  — his  energy  as  a traveller. 
He  moved  to  and  fro  on  Venetian  territory  and  else- 
where in  Italy  executing  commissions,  and  profes- 
sional engagements  also  carried  him  to  Germany 
and  to  Spain,  if  not  further  afield.  Another  revela- 
tion lying  upon  the  surface  of  his  work  bears  upon 
his  whole  character  as  an  artist.  His  productivity 
was  enormous.  If  there  is  one  thing  more  than  an- 
other that  impresses  the  student  it  is  his  rapid  execu- 
tion, the  miraculous  ease  with  which  he  fills  vast 
spaces. 

Tiepolo’s  art  is  fairly  electrical  in  its  note  of 
animation.  The  mythological  and  religious  subjects 
abounding  in  his  work  are  not  by  any  means  pro- 
foundly conceived  — but  then  one  does  not  go  to  him 
for  ideas.  His  genius  is  decorative,  in  the  strictest 
meaning  of  the  term.  It  is  important,  however,  to 
distinguish  in  this  matter.  The  decorative  tradition 
of  Raphael  is  one  essentially  formal.  That  of  Tin- 
toretto is  turbulent  with  the  vitality  of  life  itself. 
Tiepolo  abides  by  the  laws  of  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  He  does  not  depend  upon  the  scientifically 
fixed  balance  so  indispensable  to  the  Roman  master. 
He  does  not  seek  the  poignant  dramatic  effect  always 


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characteristic  of  the  great  Venetian.  He  frames  an 
ideal  of  his  own,  an  ideal  of  aerial  space  in  which 
figures  are  piled  helter-skelter  upon  billowing  clouds, 
or  wanton  in  the  empyrean  with  an  almost  birdlike 
freedom.  He  knew,  of  course,  how  to  order  his  re- 
sources, how  justly  to  fill  a given  space;  he  is  entirely 
rational  beneath  his  seeming  airs  of  reckless  improvi- 
sation. But  the  broad  impression  received  from  his 
work  is  that  of  a joyous  riot  of  form  and  color,  light 
and  air,  of  wonderfully  poised  movement.  There  is 
something  about  him  that  suggests  a great  master  of 
the  ballet,  a man  with  a gift  for  deploying  his  figures 
in  the  most  intricate  fashion,  creating  a thrilling 
atmosphere  of  spontaneous  action,  but  always  pre- 
serving control  over  his  forces,  always  adhering  more 
or  less  to  a well-pondered  pattern.  It  is  one  of  the 
paradoxes  of  artistic  history  that  this  mundane 
painter,  who  lightly  sentimentalized  nearly  every 
religious  motive  that  he  touched  and  turned  the  gods 
and  goddesses  of  mythology  into  operatic  figurantes, 
nevertheless  had  the  largest  possible  way  with  him 
when  he  tackled  a spacious  ceiling  in  church  or  pal- 
ace. He  was  as  lavish  of  thrones  as  Napoleon  him- 
self. It  would  be  amusing  to  count  the  number  of 
them  reared  amid  his  clouds,  or  set  against  the  archi- 
tectural backgrounds  he  was  wont  to  use  on  vertical 
walls  or  in  many  of  his  smaller  pictures.  He  liked 
the  regal  type,  whether  it  was  Cleopatra  or  some 
divinity  on  Olympus,  and  he  would  trick  it  out  with 


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the  most  gorgeous  habiliments.  Did  he  thereby 
make  it  the  more  convincing?  The  question  is  em- 
barrassing for  a lover  of  Tiepolo. 

He  knows  well  enough  that  he  could  not  for  a mo- 
ment believe  in  his  painter’s  imaginings.  They  are 
not,  indeed,  imaginings  at  all.  Tiepolo  could  not 
pull  himself  up  by  his  boot-straps.  He  was  a child 
of  his  time,  and  lie  had  the  fancy  of  a clever  man 
rather  than  the  creative  imagination  of  a poet.  Com- 
pare him,  for  a moment,  with  Watteau.  The  ro- 
mance of  the  dainty  melancholy  Frenchman  is  thin 
enough,  but  in  his  “Embarkation  for  Cythera,”  for 
example,  you  can  still  hear,  faint  but  true,  the  music 
of  faery.  Tiepolo  is  all  for  the  theatre.  His  paintings 
of  martyrdoms  cause  no  shudders.  There  is  nothing 
tragic  about  his  Iphigenia,  though  he  paints  that  mar- 
ble heroine  at  the  moment  of  sacrifice.  He  gives  you 
cunningly  arranged  tableaus,  not  scenes  vibrating 
with  passion.  It  is  with  a certain  amazement  that 
one  pauses  before  his  “Supper  at  Emmaus,”  in  the 
Louvre.  By  what  stroke  of  fortune,  you  ask,  did  he 
obtain  the  illumination  which  led  him  to  the  paint- 
ing of  that  picture — not  a great  picture,  but  not,  on 
the  other  hand,  one  without  a note  of  feeling?  Ordi- 
narily his  sacred  compositions  leave  the  spectator 
cold  and  sometimes  they  very  nearly  move  him  to  a 
smile.  There  is  an  “Annunciation”  of  his  in  a pri- 
vate collection  at  Madrid  which  is  positively  comic. 
The  Virgin,  standing  in  her  humble  room,  is  dignified 


Italian  Mural  Decoration 


361 


enough,  but  her  winged  visitant  is  literally  flopped 
down  upon  the  floor,  and  is  as  grotesque  as  a figure 
in  a pantomime.  It  is  only  when  he  is  illustrating 
some  love-story,  like  that  of  Rinaldo  and  Armida, 
or  is  painting  scenes  of  secular  pomp,  as  in  the  deco- 
ration of  the  Palazzo  Labia,  or  is  sketching  some 
episode  of  Venetian  life,  as  in  the  “Carnival”  which 
belonged  to  the  late  Princess  Mathilde,  that  he  is  on 
firm  ground  as  regards  the  substance  of  his  work. 
In  the  main  his  figures  are  merely  so  many  bodies  to 
be  played  with  for  pictorial  and  decorative  effect. 
But  how  superbly  he  plays  with  them! 

He  used  them  in  two  ways.  Either  he  flung  them 
with  magnificent  gesture  upon  his  luminous  ceilings, 
or,  as  in  the  Palazzo  Labia,  the  Villa  Valmarana 
and  a score  of  other  places,  he  disposed  them  with 
much  elegance  — and  occasionally  some  humor  — 
against  doorways  and  window-casings,  between  cool, 
stately  pillars,  or  in  the  reposeful  attitudes  invited 
by  a convenient  bench  or  balustrade.  Wherever  he 
painted  his  grandly  robed  gods,  his  nude  nymphs,  or 
his  ladies  and  cavaliers  in  the  latest  Venetian  velvets 
and  ruffles,  he  drew  his  models  with  incomparable 
sureness  and  grace  and  lavished  upon  them  the  colors 
of  a palette  in  which  you  find  reflected  the  pinks  and 
whites  of  roses,  the  blues  of  heaven  and  the  pearly, 
glowing  flesh  tints  of  Aphrodite  fresh  risen  from  the 
sea.  Tiepolo  put  forth,  as  has  been  indicated,  an 
immense  amount  of  work,  and  an  astonishing  propor- 


362 


Italian  Mural  Decoration 


tion  of  it  shows  him  at  his  best,  but  if  his  very  es- 
sence is  to  be  found  anywhere  it  is  to  be  found  in 
the  study  of  “The  Car  of  Venus,”  a sketch  for  a ceil- 
ing, which  hangs  in  the  Prado.  The  light  charm  of 
the  design  is  alone  captivating,  but  over  it  all  is 
thrown  the  glamour  of  exquisite  color.  Never  were 
there  purer,  more  flowerlike  effects;  never  was  sen- 
suousness nearer  to  getting  itself  turned  into  some- 
thing subtly  poetical.  That,  then,  is  Tiepolo’s  su- 
preme gift,  a gift  for  covering  a surface  with  gay 
and  lovely  forms,  with  color  as  soft  and  pleasing  as 
the  down  on  a peach,  and  so  skilfully  organizing 
this  entrancing  frou-frou  of  his  that  it  becomes 
magnificently  decorative.  In  the  eyes  of  some  en- 
thusiasts he  is  not  unworthy  of  Veronese,  and,  indeed, 
when  you  think  of  the  wholesome,  robust  way  in 
which  Tiepolo  developed  his  art  you  cannot  deny  his 
right  to  a place  in  the  great  hierarchy  of  Venetian 
painting.  He  had  not  Veronese’s  weight  and  gran- 
deur. But  he  had  the  master’s  sincerity  and  he  was, 
like  Veronese,  an  artist  of  genius. 


XII 

Rodin 


/ 


XII 


RODIN 

What  immeasurable  good  luck  has  followed  this 
artist!  No  doubt  he  has  had  his  vicissitudes,  in  the 
distant  past,  but  for  some  years  now  the  Fates  have 
been  more  than  kind  to  him,  bringing  him  honors 
and  prosperity  and  everywhere  placing  his  art  con- 
spicuously before  the  world.  In  fact,  Rodin’s  career 
as  a spoilt  child  of  fortune  makes  a story  by  itself. 
An  article  in  Le  Temps  not  long  ago  represented 
him  as  saying  that  on  a visit  that  he  had  made  to 
Rome  he  was  scrupulously  left  alone  by  the  mem- 
bers of  the  French  diplomatic  circle  there  and  the 
people  of  the  Villa  Medici,  in  which  neglect  he  saw 
an  official  condemnation  of  his  works.  However  this 
may  be,  it  is  to  be  noted  that  the  government  com- 
missioned his  gigantic — and  still  unfinished — “Porte 
de  l’Enfer”  as  far  back  as  1880,  and  it  has  generously 
entreated  him  ever  since.  You  positively  stumble 
upon  his  sculptures  in  the  Luxembourg,  there  are  so 
many  of  them  in  that  museum,  and  elsewhere  in 
Paris  they  turn  up.  His  “Victor  Hugo,”  in  mar- 
ble, has  been  placed  in  the  gardens  of  the  Palais 
Royal.  He  has  contributed  to  the  inside  of  the 

36  s 


366 


Rodin 


Pantheon,  and  one  of  his  most  important  mon- 
uments, “Le  Penseur,”  occupies  a position  directly 
in  front  of  that  building.  It  is  true  that  the  Societe 
des  Gens  de  Lettres  rejected  his  “Balzac,”  but  there 
was  never  any  occasion  for  regarding  that  incident 
with  sorrow,  the  truth  being  that  in  so  far  as  it  made 
a martyr  of  Rodin  it  also  stimulated  to  frenzy  the 
enthusiasts  who  have  long  made  it  their  business  to 
see  that  he  was  not  left  to  toil  in  obscurity. 

There  is  already  in  existence  a large  literature  re- 
lating to  the  sculptor.  Leon  Maillard  published  a 
book  about  him  in  1899  — a book  especially  valuable, 
by  the  way,  for  its  illustrations.  Another  volume, 
by  Camille  Mauclair,  appeared  in  an  English  transla- 
tion in  1905.  Two  years  later  Mr.  Frederick  Lawton 
brought  out  an  exhaustive  biography,  and  in  1908 
there  appeared  in  Brussels  the  monumental  folio  by 
Judith  Cladel.  There  is  a booklet  in  the  “Lang- 
ham  Series”  devoted  to  Rodin,  a brief  study  by  Ru- 
dolf Dircks,  and,  unless  memory  fails  me,  there  is  a 
second  monograph  by  a German  author.  As  for 
articles  in  magazines  and  newspapers,  they  are  as 
the  sands  of  the  seashore.  Multitudes  of  writers 
have  found  good  “copy”  in  Rodin.  Finally  he  has 
taken  to  letters  himself.  Grasset,  the  Paris  pub- 
lisher, recently  issued,  under  the  title  of  “L’Art,”  a 
volume  in  which  the  sculptor’s  conversations  with  his 
friend  Paul  Gsell  are,  by  the  latter,  piously  reported 
and,  more  recently,  this  work  has  been  put  into  Eng- 


Rodin 


367 


lish.  Never  was  an  artist  kept  more  devotedly  in 
the  public  eye.  The  sentimentalists  have  risen  en 
masse  to  declare  his  fame,  and  it  is  perhaps  no  wonder 
that  he  is  to-day  one  of  the  most  fashionable  makers 
of  portraits  in  the  world  and  the  object  of  a cult. 
Neither  is  it  surprising  that  he  has  become  a little 
oracular  in  his  sayings  and  a little  complacent  in  his 
work. 

What  does  it  all  amount  to,  and  how  are  we  really 
to  regard  this  man  of  genius,  who  is  also  the  hero  of 
a preposterous  reclame?  It  is  indispensable,  at  the 
outset,  to  lay  hold  of  the  fact  that  the  genius  is  there, 
or  at  all  events  was  there  when  Rodin  was  in  his 
prime.  Nor  is  there  anything  at  all  esoteric  or  baf- 
fling about  it.  His  hierophants,  of  course,  would 
have  it  that  there  is  something  about  him  grand, 
gloomy  and  peculiar,  and  quite  beyond  the  scope  of 
ordinary  canons  of  appreciation.  They  are  the  peo- 
ple who  in  an  earlier  generation  would  have  stupefied 
themselves  making  guesses  at  the  Correggiosity  of 
Correggio.  Now  they  occupy  themselves  with  the 
Rodinesquerie  of  Rodin.  Of  this  it  is  enough  to  say 
that  “there  ain’t  no  sich  thing.”  Rodin  is  not  a 
mystic,  thinking  profound  thoughts  and  embodying 
them  in  puzzling  forms.  Take,  for  example,  his 
group  called  “Pygmalion  and  Galatea.”  Rodin 
once  showed  Gsell  the  first  ebauche  for  that  com- 
position, wherein  he  represented  the  embrace  of 
a nymph  and  a faun.  Naturally,  his  interlocutor 


368 


Rodin 


was  astonished,  and  wondered  if  subject,  as  sub- 
ject, meant  anything  to  the  sculptor.  It  did  not 
do,  the  latter  replied,  to  give  too  much  importance 
to  the  themes  that  he  interpreted.  Doubtless,  he 
added,  they  had  their  value  and  helped  to  interest  the 
public,  but  the  great  anxiety  of  the  artist,  he  main- 
tained, should  be  to  get  the  play  of  living  muscle 
into  his  work;  the  rest  mattered  little.  That  carries 
us  quickly  to  the  point  with  Rodin.  It  is  merely 
life  that  has  interested  him,  and,  with  life,  character 
and  expression.  His  genius  has  been  for  these  things, 
and  for  these  things  alone.  It  is  an  old  story  that 
when  he  sent  “The  Age  of  Brass”  to  the  Salon  in 
1877  the  jury  accused  him  of  having  put  before  them 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a cast  from  life.  They 
could  not  have  paid  him  a juster  compliment. 

Gsell,  describing  his  master’s  method  of  work, 
tells  us  that  Rodin  is  wont  to  have  several  nude 
models,  men  and  women,  moving  about  in  the  studio. 
He  is  always  watching  them,  training  his  eye,  and 
presently,  when  he  notes  a good  pose,  he  arrests 
the  model  and  sets  to  work.  Gsell  could  see  that 
there  might  be  something  in  this  more  favorable  to 
spontaneous  effect  than  the  mode  followed  in  most 
studios,  where  the  model  takes  an  attitude  fixed  by 
the  sculptor,  but  he  wondered  if  Rodin’s  system  did 
not  put  him,  so  to  say,  at  the  orders  of  bis  models. 
“No,”  replied  the  artist,  “I  am  not  at  their  orders, 
but  at  those  of  Nature.”  He  qualifies  the  principle 


Rodin 


369 


there  laid  down,  however,  by  observing  that  every- 
thing still  depends  upon  the  eye  of  the  artist.  The 
mediocre  craftsman,  interpreting  a pose  thus  observed, 
would  not  get  out  of  it  that  which  is  accessible  to  the 
man  of  genius.  Thus  it  is  interesting  to  note  in  pass- 
ing that  Rodin  has  no  patience  with  those  contem- 
poraries of  his  who  complain  that  they  cannot  make 
a good  portrait  unless  they  have  a sitter  with  an 
interesting  head  and  face.  He,  I gather,  would  un- 
dertake to  find  almost  any  sitter  worth  while,  and  ac- 
cordingly one  is  not  surprised  when  in  his  talks  with 
Gsell  he  brushes  aside  the  idea  that  the  Greeks 
were  luckier  than  ourselves  in  their  models.  The 
Frenchman  is  not  in  the  least  dissatisfied  with  the 
men  and  women  who  pose  for  him,  and,  in  fact, 
grows  quite  ecstatic  over  certain  of  his  types,  bitterly 
regretting,  as  he  looks  over  some  of  his  drawings, 
that  he  has  not  done  justice  in  them  to  quite  obvious 
traits.  We  see  him,  then,  in  the  role  of  the  realist, 
if  we  must  find  some  convenient  designation  for  his 
mode  of  procedure,  and  this  view  of  the  matter  is 
easily  confirmed  by  reference  to  his  works.  Look 
at  such  sculptures  as  the  statues  of  Adam  and  Eve, 
the  grim  study  of  aged  and  broken-down  woman- 
hood, “La  Vieille  Heaulmiere,”  the  statues  of  “Le 
Penseur”  and  “The  Age  of  Brass,”  and  the  busts  of 
Dalou  and  Puvis  de  Chavannes.  Their  first  merit  is 
that  of  truth,  clearly  grasped  and  simply  expressed. 

It  is,  too,  a truth  having  a poignant  human  origin. 


370 


Rodin 


“ La  Beaute,  Best  le  caractere  ei  V expression,”  he  says, 
and  you  do  not.  find  character  or  expression  existing  in 
lifeless  shells.  The  best  of  Rodin’s  figures  seem  to 
have  been  realized  by  him  from,  within  outward  and 
hence  they  possess  extraordinary  individuality.  On 
the  other  hand,  one  has  unquestionably  seen  things 
more  beautiful,  and  that  raises  the  point  as  to  how 
far  Rodin’s  genius  “ carries,  ” how  far  it  justifies  the 
vast  claims  of  his  admirers.  He  loves  the  Greek 
masters.  He  collects  their  works  when  he  can  get 
hold  of  them,  he  is  always  studying  them,  and  some- 
thing, a faint  something,  of  their  exquisite  strength 
has  just  touched  his  own  artistic  character.  The 
hierophants  to  whom  I have  already  alluded  make 
an  easy  mouthful  of  the.  assumption  that  in  emula- 
ting the  Greeks  he  has  quite  recaptured  their  power. 
The  disinterested  onlooker  can  hardly  see  this.  Gsell 
paints  us  a charming  picture  of  an  evening  in  the 
studio  at  Meudon,  with  Rodin  hovering  around  his 
antiques,  lamp  in  hand,  and  exposing  with  delight 
the  effects  of  “ color”  thus  extorted  from  the  old 
marbles.  Throwing  a gleam  upon  one  antique  torso, 
he  asks,  “Is  there  not  there  a prodigious  symphony 
in  black  and  white?”  Unconsciously,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  Rodin  was  thus  exposing  the  little  rift  within  the 
lute,  he  was  thus  marking  his  essential  detachment 
from  the  spirit  of  Greek  art.  It  is  the  insidious 
element  of  “le  pittoresque ” lurking  in  the  point  of 
view  revealed  by  Gsell’s  anecdote  that  promptly 


Rodin 


37 1 


brings  Rodin  down  to  his  own  level,  and  careful 
scrutiny  of  his  art  soon  gives  the  measure  of  his  fall. 

His  sculpture  is  full  of  “holes,”  spots  where  deep 
shadows  play  their  indubitably  effective  part.  Bodies 
are  flung  about  at  any  angle,  limbs  are  entwined  or 
lifted  in  nominally  sublime  gestures  to  heaven,  and 
one  immediate  result  of  this  contortion  is  an  amazing 
play  of  light  and  shade.  In  unskilful  hands  a pro- 
cedure of  the  sort  instantly  gives  itself  away,  but 
Rodin  is,  among  other  things,  uncannily  clever,  and 
there  is  nobody  like  him  for  disguising  a meretricious 
habit  beneath  an  air  of  primitive  simplicity.  “Prim- 
itive” is,  to  be  sure,  the  very  word.  How  many 
times  has  it  not  been  applied  to  figures  of  Rodin’s 
like  the  “Adam,”  say,  in  which  muscular  arms  and 
legs  and  gnarled  extremities  recall,  as  the  elect 
would  express  it,  some  early  race,  heaved  up  out  of 
the  caverns  of  the  earth  by  the  sheer  force  of  nature? 
Only  this  primitiveness  does  not  wear  well,  especially 
if  you  happen  to  turn  back  from  it  to  the  serene 
might  of  Greek  or  Egyptian  sculpture  or  to  the 
heroic  types  of  Michael  Angelo.  What  is  it  that  first 
wakes  a doubt?  It  is  that  these  large  contours  in 
Rodin’s  art  spell  not  so  much  style  as  manner.  The 
dictionary  explains  the  word  “mannerism”  after  a 
rather  formidable  fashion.  “Monotonous,”  it  says, 
“formal  or  pedantic  adherence  to  the  same  manner; 
uniformity  of  manner,  especially  a tasteless  uniform- 
ity without  freedom  or  variety:  excessive  adherence 


372 


Rodin 


to  a characteristic  mode  or  manner  of  action  or  treat- 
ment.” Let  us  by  all  means  eschew  pedantry  and 
commit  no  such  sin  as  that  of  hurling  the  dictionary 
at  Rodin’s  head.  And  yet  — there  is  appositeness  in 
that  outrageous  definition.  Repetition  has  nearly 
killed  Rodin;  not  repetition  of  specific  types  of  com- 
position, though  that  has  been  his  tendency,  but  of 
that  very  “effect”  of  his  which  he  founded,  in  the 
beginning,  so  successfully  on  truth. 

It  is,  after  all,  rather  narrowly  the  truth  of  the  flesh, 
endued,  as  we  have  seen,  with  character  and  expression, 
but  primarily  and  too  exclusively  an  affair  of  bone  and 
muscle,  blood  and  skin.  Over  and  over  again  it 
comes  out  in  the  conversations  reported  by  Gsell 
that  what  enthralls  Rodin  is  the  body,  as  the  body. 
Steadily,  as  time  has  gone  on,  he  has  played  with  it 
as  with  a medium,  until  a bony  plane,  a leg  full  of 
sinews,  a soft  voluptuous  curve,  has  come  to  mean  to 
him  what  a theme  means  to  the  musician  improvi- 
sing upon  an  instrument.  Whither  does  it  all  tend? 
The  genius  who  preserves  undimmed  an  authentic 
inspiration  is  constructive  while  he  plays,  and  pro- 
duces, one  after  the  other,  organic  fabrics  of  design. 
By  those  works  of  his  you  know  him  for  the  great 
creative  artist.  The  lesser  man  does  not  fail  us  in 
quantity,  nor  is  he  necessarily  without  a certain  pass- 
ing charm,  but  he  remains  inchoate  and  capricious, 
and  by  his  works  you  know  him,  not  for  the  great 
creative  artist,  but  for  the  diffusive,  unstable  “tern- 


Rodin 


373 


perament.”  Rodin  began  by  suggesting  that  he 
might,  perhaps,  range  himself  in  the  first  category, 
and  there  are  among  his  earlier  works  pieces  so  fine 
that  it  is  idle  to  imagine  their  ever  falling  into  obliv- 
ion. But  for  years  he  has  been  unmistakably  the 
man  of  the  smaller  gift,  consummate  in  his  exploita- 
tion of  that  gift,  but  none  the  less  a man  on  the  wrong 
track.  He  aimed  at  grandeur,  as  witness  the  as- 
tounding pell-mell  of  figures  in  the  “Porte  de  l’Enfer” 
and  the  massy  conception  of  “Les  Bourgeois  de 
Calais,”  but  grandeur  was  not  in  him  in  any  deep, 
spiritual  and  lasting  sense.  He  figured  to  himself 
Victor  Hugo,  listening  to  the  voices  of  nature,  and 
if  we  are  to  believe  the  nonsense  of  his  acolytes  the 
poet  as  he  portrayed  him  is  truly  rapt  by  the  murmurs 
of  the  sea,  but,  as  a matter  of  fact,  he  shows  us  only 
an  old  gentleman  looking  absurd  in  the  absence  of  his 
clothes.  He  has  had  any  number  of  noble  intentions, 
which  we  are  told  he  has  fulfilled,  but  he  may  design 
an  Apollo  in  a violent  attitude,  and  we  get  only  atti- 
tude; he  may  depict  for  us  Ugulino  and  his  sons, 
but  we  have  simply  some  sprawling  bodies,  instead 
of  that  figure  of  freezing  horror  whose  words  Mat- 
thew Arnold  put  among  the  touchstones  of  great 
poetry — 

I wailed  not,  so  of  stone  grew  I within, 

They  wailed. 

That  instinct  of  his  for  character  and  expression 
is  searching,  so  far  as  it  goes,  and  he  moves  you 


374 


Rodin 


when  he  wreaks  it  upon  subjects  that  lie  well  within 
his  scope.  With  the  mere  human  animal  he  never 
fails,  but  gets  always  intense  reality  and  movement. 
Some  of  his  portraits,  too,  have  a rich  vitality,  but  it 
is  significant  that  while  he  immensely  admired  Puvis 
de  Chavannes  it  has  been  one  of  the  bitterest  regrets 
of  his  career  that  his  bust  of  the  latter  did  not  please 
the  great  painter,  who  thought  it,  in  fact,  a carica- 
ture. The  episode  sheds  a little  light  on  the  question 
of  Rodin’s  ability  to  rise  with  his  theme.  He  faced 
in  Puvis  de  Chavannes  a type  of  great  intellectual 
force,  a calm  and  lofty  soul.  He  could  model  the 
stately  head  and  express  the  physical  life  in  it,  but 
he  could  do  no  more.  What  was  subtlest  and  most 
precious  in  his  friend’s  character  escaped  him.  Apro- 
pos of  this  faltering  touch  of  his  when  he  is  moving 
about  in  worlds  not  realized,  one  may  profitably  com- 
pare the  first  study  for  the  head  of  his  “Balzac”  with 
the  head  of  his  statue  as  it  was  finally  modelled.  The 
earlier  version  is  the  conception  of  the  realist  pure  and 
simple.  We  owe  the  other  to  the  realist  doubled  with 
the  would-be  “interpreter,”  the  would-be  dealer  in 
truth  heightened  by  imagination.  In  neither  does  he 
portray  the  true  Balzac,  but  he  is  at  least  on  safer 
ground  in  the  first  mask,  which  is  an  affair  of  mere  flesh 
and  blood.  Extend  this  criticism  from  the  field  of  por- 
traiture into  that  of  symbolism  and  of  those  poetic 
myths  from  which  Rodin  has  drawn  so  many  of  his  mo- 
tives, and  you  fall  upon  even  greater  dubiety.  Despite 


Rodin 


375 


the  vaultings  of  his  ambition  he  does  not  impress  us 
in  his  works  as  a man  of  ideas,  calling  new  and  won- 
derful things  out  of  the  void  and  animating  them 
with  a life  stronger  than  that  of  poor  human  clay. 

Rodin’s  obvious  handicap  has  been  the  quality 
of  his  mind  and  imagination.  His  is  a profoundly 
sensuous  art,  sensuous  to  the  core,  and  while  he  has 
been  attacking  high  erected  themes  these  have  not, 
on  his  own  confession,  really  mattered  to  him;  it  has 
been  enough  for  him  to  caress  in  his  marble  or  bronze 
a living  form.  And  all  the  time  he  has  been  betrayed 
by  his  immense  technical  resource.  It  is  a by- 
word among  sculptors  that  Rodin,  as  a modeller, 
takes  their  breath  away.  His  is  a fatal  facility  if 
ever  an  artist  had  that  affliction.  One  of  Gsell’s 
most  interesting  chapters  describes  the  sculptor  mod- 
elling in  his  presence  a statuette  after  the  principles 
of  Pheidias,  and  then  doing  another  a la  Michael  An- 
gelo. The  old  fingers  worked  like  magic;  almost  in 
a moment  the  statuettes  were  there.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  know  that,  and  delightful  into  the  bargain. 
One  rejoices  in  skill  so  swift  and  so  sure,  so  respon- 
sive to  the  movement  of  a fine  intelligence.  And 
among  Rodin’s  works  one  would  have  to  be  much  of 
a pedant  and  philistine  to  remain  insensitive  to  that 
marvellous  modelling  of  his,  which  is  just  one  endless 
succession  of  subtleties  pleasing  and  true.  How  they 
soothe  the  eye!  How  you  kindle  to  the  mere  tender- 
ness of  form  that  they  express!  It  is  amusing,  for 


376 


Rodin 


a moment,  to  remember  in  their  presence  one  achieve- 
ment of  another  French  master  of  form,  “Le  Bain 
Turc”  of  Ingres.  The  picture  is  a wonderful  bit  of 
drawing,  but  it  has  no  warmth,  no  glow.  There  is  a 
burning  life  in  Rodin’s  nudities.  But  it  is  a life  in- 
voked through  mechanical  skill  and  through  a very- 
earthy  passion,  if  through  passion  at  all.  It  is  per- 
haps the  most  conclusive  of  all  testimonies  to  the 
truth  of  this  impression  that  there  is  no  one  above 
the  ruck  in  modern  sculpture  who  is  less  haunting  than 
Rodin.  We  observe  his  work  with  interest  and  enjoy- 
ment, but  it  leaves  no  mark. 

That  seems,  perhaps,  a risky  thing  to  say  of  the 
man  who  bulks  so  largely  not  only  in  French  but  in 
other  museums,  who  has  had  so  many  imitators  all 
over  the  world,  and  has  stimulated  such  a horde  of 
eulogists  to  unceasing  effort.  When  one  has  ac- 
counted for  all  the  ignorance  and  sentimentality  that 
have  gone  to  the  promotion  of  the  Rodin  legend  one 
is  still  confronted  by  a body  of  opinion,  among  artists 
as  well  as  among  laymen,  which  is  bound  to  command 
respect.  It  is  still  permissible  to  believe,  however, 
that  Rodin  has  been  vastly  overrated,  that  his  great 
merits  lie  within  clearly  defined  and,  on  the  whole, 
rather  narrow  boundaries,  and  that  when  the  imita- 
tors and  the  panegyrists  have  gone  down  the  wind 
they  will  be  accompanied  by  a considerable  number 
of  his  works.  By  that  time  there  may  be,  too,  a 
more  general  recognition  of  the  fact  now  so  curiously 


Rodin 


377 


overlooked,  that  Rodin  came  in  an  epoch  not  over- 
whelmingly rich  in  great  sculpture,  and  by  virtue  of 
that  very  fact  secured  a not  unprofitable  salience 
which  might  not  have  been  his  in  other  circumstances. 
The  modern  French  school  has  been  characterized 
since  Rude  by  thoroughly  academic  traits,  and  its 
leaders,  save  for  a rare  type  like  Dubois,  have  lacked 
in  distinction  what  they  have  possessed  in  manual 
dexterity.  Rodin,  with  his  truth  to  nature,  his  skill 
in  reproducing  the  surface  beauty  of  nature,  his  light 
and  shade,  and  his  freedom,  has  seemed  dowered 
with  a greater  originality  than  he  actually  could 
claim.  He  has  been  the  “new”  man,  the  one  type 
that  was  “different,”  and  in  their  longing  for  reaction 
against  the  rules  of  the  Ecole  des  Beaux-Arts  and  the 
Salon  crowds  of  his  contemporaries  have  hailed  him 
as  a kind  of  Moses,  destined  to  lead  them  into  the 
promised  land.  Poor  Rodin!  He  never  dreamed  of 
doing  anything  of  the  sort.  Sometimes,  in  the  quie- 
tude of  reflection  among  his  beloved  antiques,  he  must 
think  with  a sort  of  mild  astonishment  of  all  the 
bother  that  has  been  made  about  his  art. 


XIII 


Four  Leaders  in  American 
Architecture 

I.  H.  H.  Richardson 

II.  Richard  Morris  Hunt 

III.  Charles  F.  McKim 

IV.  Daniel  H.  Burnham 


■ 

■ 


XIII 


FOUR  LEADERS  IN  AMERICAN 
ARCHITECTURE 

Architecture  is  the  most  richly  vitalized  of  the 
arts  in  America  to-day,  more  closely  allied  than  any 
other  to  national  needs  and  taste.  In  the  mere  bulk 
and  scope  of  our  building  operations  we  have  made, 
in  the  last  twenty-five  or  thirty  years,  such  heroic 
strides  that  if  we  had  not  possessed  resourceful  de- 
signers we  would  have  had  to  invent  them.  Imagina- 
tion boggles  at  the  thought  of  what  the  United  States 
would  now  look  like  if  something  like  an  efficient 
school  of  architecture  had  not  been  developed  to  keep 
abreast  of  a stupendous  material  expansion.  Indus- 
trial prosperity,  the  growth  of  railroads,  civic  and 
State  pride — all  these  things  have  played  royally  into 
the  hands  of  the  architects,  and  with  the  stern,  prac- 
tical demands  made  upon  them  there  has  gone  an  ex- 
traordinary artistic  stimulus.  There  are  more  clever, 
ambitious  men  in  the  profession  than  ever  before  in 
our  history,  and  one  has  only  to  take  a swift  bird’s-eye 
view  of  what  they  are  doing,  from  New  York  to  Cal- 
ifornia, to  see  how  high  the  average  of  merit  is  every- 
where. The  first  question  raised  by  such  a survey 

381 


3 §2  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


concerns,  however,  not  the  men  now  active  but  their 
immediate  predecessors.  How  was  this  Renaissance 
brought  about?  Who  were  the  givers  of  the  new  dis- 
pensation? 

The  striking  thing  about  the  field  of  inquiry  thus 
opened  before  us  is  the  narrowness  of  its  bounda- 
ries in  respect  to  time.  It  is  within  a comparatively 
few  recent  years  that  American  architecture  has  been 
made  over,  and  made  over,  as  we  shall  see,  almost  as 
though  in  a vacuum,  with  no  help  from  our  own  his- 
toric past.  To  the  casual  observer,  recalling  the  Capi- 
tol at  Washington,  certain  other  public  buildings 
there,  the  Boston  State  House,  and  the  New  York 
City  Hall,  it  might  seem  that  there  had  been  carried 
over  from  the  eighteenth  century,  well  into  the  nine- 
teenth, a classical  tradition  quite  inspiring  enough 
for  any  school  to  go  on  with  in  a fairly  vigorous  frame 
of  mind.  Some  of  the  heroes  in  that  austere  but 
fruitful  period  died  a long  time  ago:  Latrobe  in  1820 
and  Bulfxnch  in  1844,  but  others,  like  McComb,  who 
designed  our  beautiful  City  Hall,  and  lived  until  1853, 
seem  to  touch  hands  with  the  present  generation. 
Isaiah  Rogers,  who  built  the  old  Custom  House  in 
Wall  Street,  was  alive  in  1869.  Of  course,  one  super- 
ficially reflects,  they  left  a school  behind  them.  They 
did  nothing  of  the  sort.  When  these  architectural 
masters  of  ours-— for  they  were  masters,  in  their  grave, 
academic  way  — retired  from  the  scene,  the  Muse 
strayed  off  into  the  wilderness.  The  Civil  War, 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  383 


doubtless,  had  something  to  do  with  her  sulky  with- 
drawal. It  took  time  for  the  artistic  atmosphere  to 
clear  after  that  upheaval,  and  economic  as  well  as 
less  ponderable  conditions  had  to  suffer  readjustment. 
The  buildings  waiting  for  the  genius  that  was  to  give 
them  form  had  also  to  wait  for  old  fortunes  to  be  re- 
stored, and  new  ones  to  be  made,  in  order  that  money 
might  be  forthcoming  to  pay  for  them.  Meanwhile, 
for  several  decades,  say  from  the  thirties  into  the 
seventies  and  even  into  the  eighties,  such  architecture 
as  appeared  on  this  continent,  apart  from  that  pro- 
ceeding from  the  old  school,  was  wont  to  be  a fearful 
and  wonderful  thing.  I would  not  frame  its  elegy. 
The  less  said  about  those  well-meant  aberrations,  the 
Queen  Anne  cottage,  the  brown-stone  front,  the  “or- 
nate” public  building,  etc.,  the  better.  “His  name 
was  Dennis,”  says  one  of  the  talkers  in  Kipling’s  “ Con- 
ference of  the  Powers,”  when  tactless  inquiry  is  made 
as  to  some  incompetent,  “and  we’ll  let  it  stay  so.” 
All  that  we  need  note  at  this  point  is  that  when  the 
new  men  arose,  the  leaders  to  whom  in  one  way  or 
another  we  owe  our  present  status  in  architecture, 
they  were  offered  a clean  sheet  of  paper.  The  horrors 
around  them  were,  perhaps,  not  unhelpful  either,  for 
at  least  they  showed  the  adventurers  in  strange 
seas  what  to  avoid. 


3^4  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


I 

H.  H.  RICHARDSON 

They  were  contemporaries,  the  architects  with 
whom  I am  here  specially  concerned,  and  hence  there 
Is  no  strict  chronological  sequence  in  which  to  view 
them;  but  in  the  matter  of  influence  for  good  or  for 
ill,  of  the  broad  relation  of  each  man  in  the  group  to 
their  common  period  of  architectural  history,  we  may 
safely  range  them  in  a certain  order,  beginning  with 
Henry  Hobson  Richardson,  Born  in  1839,  he  was  a 
younger  man,  younger  by  ten  years  or  more,  than 
Hunt,  but  his  course  was  run  quicker  and  earlier  than 
was  that  of  his  friend ; and  when  I say  this  I am  glan- 
cing not  so  much  at  the  date  of  his  untimely  death, 
1886,  as  at  the  curiously  swift  and  circumscribed  na- 
ture of  his  rule.  It  was  a rule,  while  it  lasted.  There 
was  a time  when  Richardson’s  vogue  was  tremendous. 
The  man  himself  was  robust  and  inspiriting,  a type  of 
bold,  affirmative  force;  his  loyal  disciples  “backed” 
him  not  only  for  what  he  did  but  for  what  he  was. 
La  Farge,  who  used  to  visit  him  in  old  days  at  his  home 
on  Staten  Island,  before  he  had  “arrived”  with  his 
design  for  Trinity  Church  and  had  made  his  definitive 
removal  to  Boston,  told  me  of  his  ample  ways.  “Like 
many  other  great  men  he  was  a mighty  eater  and 
drinker — a pitcher  of  milk,  a pitcher  of  champagne, 
a pitcher  of  water  — everything  was  done  on  a large 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  385 


scale  and  his  work  is  of  that  kind.”  A Southerner  by 
birth,  he  began  life  in  New  Orleans,  but  he  was  edu- 
cated at  Harvard  and  on  his  graduation  proceeded 
to  Paris,  where  he  entered  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts 
and  fitted  himself  for  the  architectural  profession. 

In  one  of  the  letters  of  this  formative  period, 
printed  by  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer  in  her  biography  of 
Richardson,  there  is  a brief,  arresting  sentence.  “To 
Athens  and  Rome  I must  go,  coute  que  coute,”  he  ex- 
claims. Curiosity  is  piqued,  but  as  a matter  of  fact 
whether  he  went  or  not  is  beside  the  point.  The  in- 
teresting thing  is  that  he  came  back  to  America  in 
1862  neither  the  Renaissance  man  that  he  might  have 
been  made  by  the  one  journey  nor  the  classicist  that 
he  might  have  been  made  by  the  other.  Nor  had 
the  Ecole  made  him  an  Academician.  His  first  com- 
mission, the  Church  of  the  Unity  in  Springfield,  was 
an  essay  in  English  Gothic!  That  was  built  in  1866. 
Within  three  or  four  years  he  was  designing  the  Brat- 
tle Square  Church,  in  Boston,  and  modelling  its  tall 
tower  on  an  Italian  campanile  of  the  earlier  type. 
Other  instances  might  be  cited  to  show  an  eclectic 
tendency.  But  even  at  this  period,  in  the  early  sev- 
enties, he  was  feeling  his  way  toward  the  idiom  which 
was  ultimately  to  distinguish  him  and  when  he  at- 
tacked the  problem  offered  in  the  competition  for 
Trinity  Church,  he  had  this  idiom  sufficiently  under 
control  to  use  it  with  a flourish.  The  Gothic  influ- 
ence persisted,  but  the  Romanesque  prevailed.  Later 


386  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


he  was  to  develop  still  another  manner,  but  his  genius 
was  at  bottom  Romanesque,  and  so  it  stayed  until 
he  died.  It  is  with  the  Richardson  of  Trinity  Church 
that  we  have  to  reckon  in  the  perspective  of  our 
subject. 

There  is  a great  building  lying  about  in  it,  a mas- 
terpiece struggling  to  be  born.  The  huge  central 
tower,  so  strongly  reminiscent  of  Salamanca,  would 
alone  challenge  interest  and  admiration.  Perhaps 
it  is  in  its  too  proud  predominance  that  we  have 
a clew  to  Richardson’s  predestined  failure  as  a lasting 
influence;  it  marks  him  the  creator  of  the  fine  episode 
rather  than  of  the  organic,  full-rounded,  great  design. 
But  I think  there  is  a more  conclusive  explanation 
of  the  fact  that  most  if  not  all  of  the  enthusiasm 
he  once  excited  has  gone  down  the  wind.  Pas- 
sionately as  he  cared  for  his  warm  Southern  inspira- 
tion, profoundly  as  he  studied  it,  he  was  nevertheless 
on  the  wrong  track.  While  admirers  everywhere 
cheered  him  on,  while  clients  testified  to  the  faith  that 
was  in  them  by  storming  him  with  commissions,  while 
pupils  drank  in  his  stirring  gospel  and  presently  went 
forth  to  practise  in  offices  of  their  own  what  he  had 
preached,  no  one  fallen  under  the  Richardsonian  spell 
took  account  of  the  little  disintegrating  force  even 
then  working  at  its  centre.  This  was  the  too  exotic 
nature  of  the  architect’s  inspiration.  All  our  styles 
have  been  brought  from  overseas,  but  this  one,  I think, 
was  the  hardest  to  acclimatize,  the  one  most  alien  to 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  387 


the  genius  of  the  country.  When  we  are  flamboyant 
we  are  prone  to  be  shrill.  Our  fervor  does  not  visit 
us  in  a vague,  cloudy,  solemn  way — it  flickers.  There 
are  no  mysterious  reverberations  about  our  artistic 
romanticism.  When  we  are  at  our  worst  our  utter- 
ance is  thin  and  hard.  When  we  are  at  our  best  we 
are  above  all  things  glittering  and  lucid.  There,  I 
believe,  is  the  significant  element,  a certain  sharp, 
sane,  and  perhaps  somewhat  prosaic  lucidity  which 
goes  with  our  very  blood  and  tells  in  our  style.  And 
because  Richardson  quarrelled  with  it,  without  hav- 
ing the  last  imperious  power  to  put  a spiritually  in- 
congruous, unwelcome  inspiration  in  its  place,  he  re- 
mained at  the  height  of  his  fame,  and  still  remains, 
a kind  of  exotic,  a mistaken  interpreter  of  his  time 
and  his  opportunity,  a great  artist  manque. 

In  expressing  himself,  or  perhaps  I should  say  in 
expressing  a misdirected  zest,  he  pleased  himself,  and, 
by  the  same  token,  countless  others.  But  you  get 
some  idea  of  his  irrelevance  and  thereby  of  his  failure 
when  you  note,  for  example,  his  resemblance  to  a 
painter  like  Watts,  the  English  idealist  who  tried  to 
recapture  the  grand  manner  of  the  old  Italians  and 
did  great  work,  leaving  a great  name,  but  without 
convincing  us  that  either  belongs  amongst  the  things 
that  really  endure.  Both  men  tried  to  pull  them- 
selves up  by  their  boot-straps.  It  can’t  be  done. 
Full-bodied  romance  like  Richardson’s  needs  an  older, 
more  composite,  more  generous  soil  than  ours.  Trin- 


388  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


ity  is  a magnificent  effort,  but  it  shows  the  strain. 
I may  risk  an  appeal  to  another  art.  “For  poetry,” 
says  Matthew  Arnold,  “the  idea  is  everything;  the 
rest  is  a world  of  illusion,  of  divine  illusion.”  Rich- 
ardson had  the  idea;  but  the  illusion  escaped  him ; and 
to  architecture  such  as  he  strove  to  make  the  illusion 
is  indispensable.  His  art  needs  depth,  warmth,  color, 
and  an  atmosphere  both  of  ebullient  tangible  life  and 
of  shadowy,  even  mystical,  beauties.  It  needs  illu- 
sion, charm.  Trinity  is  stark,  muscle-bound,  one  of 
the  coldest  piles  in  architecture  anywhere.  Richard- 
son had  weight,  too  much  weight.  For  the  burgeon- 
ing grace  of  Romanesque,  which  enchants  even  while 
it  gravely  impresses,  he  was  heavy-handed.  The  best 
monuments  to  his  genius,  though  not  the  most  char- 
acteristic of  his  ambition,  or,  unfortunately,  the  most 
fertile  in  influence,  are  those  later  public  buildings, 
like  the  City  Hall  at  Albany  and  the  Court  House  and 
Jail  at  Pittsburg,  in  which  his  exuberance  is  tamed, 
his  style  is  simplified,  and  he  comes  back  to  plain 
prose.  That,  too,  he  overdid.  “A  pitcher  of  milk, 
a pitcher  of  champagne,  etc.”  He  would  make  a 
warehouse,  or,  for  that  matter,  a private  dwelling,  look 
like  a fortress.  Whenever  he  was  content  to  be  sim- 
ple he  had,  to  be  sure,  his  reward.  The  Richardson 
who  built  Sever  Hall  at  Harvard  and  certain  modest 
libraries  and  railroad  stations  in  New  England  will 
be  not  ungratefully  remembered.  Neither,  on  the 
other  hand,  will  he  be  lauded  as  he  once  was  lauded, 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  389 


and  the  imitation  of  him  which  raged  for  a time  is 
unlikely  ever  to  be  revived. 

And  yet  his  place  as  one  of  our  leaders  is  secure, 
for  reasons  highly  germane  to  the  present  inquiry. 
Richardson’s  work,  diverging  from  the  permanent 
channel  of  American  art  and  carrying  us  for  a while 
into  a sort  of  backwater,  nevertheless  was  allied  to  a 
pure  stream  of  ideas  and  made  for  a fine  standard. 
He  helped  to  abolish  a meretricious  regime.  He  made 
buildings  which  if  not  perfect  or  in  harmony  with 
the  true  spirit  of  the  age  still  called  men  to  a higher 
plane  of  aesthetics.  He  cleansed  taste.  Through  him 
architecture  was  brought  nearer  to  re-establishment 
as  an  art.  What  he  did  reacted  upon  the  minds  of 
laymen  and  architects  alike,  waking  new  and  nobler 
desires,  stimulating  new  and  more  intelligent  am- 
bitions. His  energy  reached  far.  He  communicated 
precious  elements  of  life  to  a movement  needing  just 
the  burly  impetus  that  he  was  qualified  to  give  it. 
It  was  his  misfortune,  not  his  fault,  that  he  encour- 
aged exoticism,  redundancy,  and  an  inexpressive, 
florid  kind  of  swagger,  at  a time  when  the  one  thing 
we  needed  was  discipline. 


39°  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


II 

RICHARD  MORRIS  HUNT 

Richardson’s  magnificent  sincerity  and  the  sheer 
creative  ability  of  the  man  gave  an  astonishing  weight 
to  his  influence,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  at  all  that 
if  this  had  remained  unchallenged  he  might  have  im- 
posed the  tour  de  force  upon  us,  as  the  popular  solu- 
tion of  our  architectural  problems,  for  a number 
of  years  on  which  it  is  distinctly  uncomfortable  to 
reflect.  The  challenge  was  to  come,  however,  from 
at  least  two  powerful  quarters,  and  in  both  instances 
it  was  to  drive  at  that  weak  point  in  his  armor  upon 
which  I have  laid  stress.  Strengthened  by  European 
precedent,  it  was  nevertheless  to  make  clear  that  not 
everything  in  Europe  is  suited  to  our  conditions,  that 
there  are  traditions  infinitely  more  to  our  purpose 
than  the  Romanesque.  Of  McKim’s  pure  style  I 
shall  speak  later.  It  worked  mighty  changes  when 
it  came  fully  into  play.  But  before  then  Hunt  was 
quietly  doing  much  to  redress  the  balance,  and  he 
was  doing  it  because  the  difference  between  him  and 
Richardson  went  to  the  root  of  the  matter.  Richard- 
son was  an  absolutely  idiosyncratic  type,  a man  whose 
individuality  would  not  down.  Hunt  abandoned  the 
personal  bias  at  the  outset  of  his  career.  He  was 
from  first  to  last  an  academic  artist,  rich  in  character, 
in  strength  of  temperament,  but  scholastic  to  the 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  391 


core.  To  any  one  who  meditates  on  the  progress  of 
architecture  in  America  at  the  crucial  period  of  which 
I speak  it  is  fascinating  to  watch  the  two  influences 
working  side  by  side,  and  to  see  in  the  longer  survival 
of  Hunt’s  another  proof  of  the  cosmopolitan,  eclectic 
nature  of  our  art.  Richardson’s  style  was  too  per- 
sonal to  himself  to  be  communicable,  and  so  it  bred 
only  ephemeral  imitation.  Hunt  was  all  for  abstract 
principles,  and  these  he  could  and  did  teach  to  his 
countrymen.  He  did  not  make  them  mould  their 
styles  on  his.  But  he  drilled  them  in  the  logic  of 
architecture,  in  its  rectitude,  in  those  elements  of  it 
which  are  independent  of  temperament  and  might 
even  be  described  as  independent  of  time  and  place. 
In  the  light  of  these  ideas  he  looms  as  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  artists  of  his  time. 

One  link  he  had  with  Richardson,  the  dominating, 
enkindling  power  of  the  master,  and  I cannot  forbear 
pausing  for  a moment  on  the  personality  of  this  fa- 
mous leader  as  I used  to  know  him.  As  a man  Rich- 
ard Morris  Hunt  was  the  antithesis  of  his  architectu- 
ral self.  He  was  a picturesque  figure,  stalwart  for  his 
inches  (he  was  not  tall),  and  with  something  in  his 
carriage  as  well  as  in  his  manner  of  speech  that  made 
you  suspect  the  military  officer  rather  than  the  artist. 
His  head  was  handsome;  it  conveyed  even  an  im- 
pression of  stateliness,  at  times,  under  the  gray  hair. 
But  the  air  of  stateliness  was  fleeting.  In  the  main, 
Hunt  was  prodigiously  vivacious,  almost  a French- 


392  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


man  in  some  of  his  quick  passages  of  talk,  and  the 
talk  itself  was  explosive.  He  liked  pungency  and 
never  failed  to  introduce  it  into  his  discourse,  no 
matter  what  the  occasion.  At  a public  dinner,  no 
less  than  in  private  conversation,  he  was  fond  of  ac- 
centuating what  he  had  to  say  with  that  tempestu- 
ous rhetoric  in  which  old  Mr.  Hardcastle  indulged, 
and  yet  there  was  no  sting  of  wrath  in  Hunt’s  fiery 
speech.  If  he  damned  a thing  he  did  it  genially,  and 
with  a touch  of  humor  that  somehow  made  the  objur- 
gation seem  almost  a form  of  approval.  He  would 
grow  apocalyptic  sometimes,  piling  up  his  denuncia- 
tion in  heroic  masses;  but  all  the  time  there  was  the 
twinkle  in  the  eye  that  prepared  you  for  the  harmless 
conclusion,  and  it  was  usually  odds  that  you  would 
burst  into  laughter  with  the  crash  of  the  wordy  climax. 
And  Hunt  laughed  with  you.  He  was  helpful  and 
sympathetic  by  nature.  To  the  veriest  stranger  he 
was  accessible  and  cordial  so  soon  as  he  saw  that  his 
interlocutor  was  seriously  interested  in  the  question 
at  issue.  For  in  the  great  question  for  him,  in  the 
question  of  architecture,  his  own  interest  was  inex- 
haustible. 

As  a man  he  was  impulsive,  quick-tempered,  ebul- 
lient, picturesque  always.  As  an  architect  this  unflag- 
ging enthusiast,  fighting  always  for  what  he  believed 
to  be  the  best,  could  do  nothing  hasty  or  ill-consid- 
ered. The  study  which  engrossed  his  life  was  begun 
when  he  was  only  fifteen.  At  that  age  he  left  Bos- 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  393 


ton,  where  he  had  been  pursuing  his  education  in  the 
High  School  and  the  Latin  School,  and  went  with  his 
mother  to  Europe.  She  took  him  to  Geneva,  where 
in  1843  he  entered  the  architectural  atelier  of  Samuel 
Darier.  From  Geneva  he  proceeded  to  Paris  and 
continued  his  studies.  Hector  Lefuel  was  his  master. 
Hunt  studied  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts  for  some  time 
and  then  went  off  to  Egypt  and  Asia  Minor.  Re- 
turning to  Paris  in  1854  he  was  made  Inspecteur  des 
Travaux  by  the  Government,  the  appointment  direct- 
ing his  energies  upon  the  construction  of  those  new 
buildings  which  connected  the  Tuileries  with  the 
Louvre.  Lefuel  was  in  charge  of  this  work  and  he 
gave  Hunt  the  Pavilion  de  la  Bibliotheque  for  his 
province.  It  meant  priceless  experience  to  him.  It 
gave  him  practical  training  in  exactly  the  school  which 
pleased  him  most — the  French  school  of  academic 
architecture,  a school  in  which  splendor,  and  a cer- 
tain monumental  dignity,  are  the  indispensable  in- 
gredients of  style. 

When  Hunt  was  engaged  upon  the  Louvre  he  was 
still  in  his  twenties.  In  fact  he  was  only  twenty- 
seven  when  he  returned  to  America,  with  a foreign 
experience  behind  him  probably  unique  in  the  annals 
of  our  school.  His  powers  were  soon  recognized.  He 
had  scarcely  settled  here  before  he  was  invited  to 
share  in  the  completion  of  the  Capitol  at  Washington. 
He  served  for  six  months  as  assistant  to  Thomas  U. 
Walter,  the  architect  in  charge,  and  then  returned  to 


394  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


New  York  to  found  the  practice  which  he  carried  on 
to  the  day  of  his  death  in  1895.  He  established  him- 
self also  as  the  master  of  an  office  — in  Paris  it  would 
have  been  called  an  atelier — to  which  the  young  ar- 
chitects of  the  country  were  eager  to  gain  admittance. 
It  was  at  this  time  that  his  influence  was  perhaps  most 
definite  and  potent.  He  drew  any  number  of  clever 
men  to  his  side,  and,  while  no  one  of  the  group  copied 
his  style,  they  were  all  immensely  benefited  by  the 
sound  principles  he  taught.  These  were,  that  archi- 
tecture to  be  good  must  be  good  in  construction,  that 
every  factor  in  a design  must  be  in  its  proper  place; 
that  the  architect  must  be  above  all  things  moderate, 
respectful  of  well-ascertained  rules,  true  to  the  golden 
mean  of  taste  marking  the  school  from  which  Hunt 
came.  A building  with  him  was  a problem  to  be 
solved  with  strict  reference  to  the  necessities  of  the 
situation,  and  with  even  stricter  reference  to  laws  of 
proportion,  of  balance.  In  a word,  he  was  healthily 
academic.  His  genius  was  not  creative  and  he  did 
not  strike  out  on  a new  line,  but  he  was  brimming 
over  with  vitality;  there  was  nothing  crassly  conserv- 
ative about  him,  and  he  kept  his  work  within  almost 
severe  bounds  without  ever  making  it  barren  or  coldly 
conventional.  Richardson  triumphed  over  Hunt  in 
the  Trinity  competition,  but  the  loser  there  won  else- 
where a longer  and  a truer  victory.  His  tonic  influ- 
ence, keyed  perfectly  to  the  American  spirit,  was  of 
incalculable  value  in  counteracting  the  spread  of  that 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  395 


Romanesque  fallacy  whose  ravages  we  have  consid- 
ered. And  he  proved,  too,  what  it  was  important  to 
know,  that  the  classical  tradition,  filtered  through 
the  French,  was  not  incompatible  with  artistic  free- 
dom. 

How  far  Hunt  could  go  in  the  direction  of  mere 
picturesque  charm,  for  example,  when  he  chose,  in 
the  direction  of  mere  elegance  and  sensuous  beauty, 
he  showed  in  the  house  for  Mr.  W.  K.  Vanderbilt  at 
Fifth  Avenue  and  Fifty-second  Street  in  New  York. 
It  is  perhaps  less  characteristic  of  him  than  many 
other  designs  which  might  be  cited.  It  is  his  tour 
de  force,  and  its  revival  of  old  French  motives  in  the 
environment  fixed  for  it  may  seem  open  to  question. 
But  it  is  an  enchanting  revival,  standing  alone  in  all 
America.  There  has  never  been  anything  to  equal 
it  here  for  grace,  for  exquisite  finish,  for  a daintiness 
reminding  us  of  some  French  chateau  with  its  roman- 
tic background  rather  than  of  Fifth  Avenue.  It  has 
often  been  said  that  the  house  needed  a park  around 
it.  This  is  very  true.  It  would  be  greatly  enhanced 
by  slight  distance,  by  avenues  of  trees  and  by  ade- 
quate terracing.  But  just  as  it  is  it  is  a brilliant  per- 
formance. The  outlines  are  ravishingly  picturesque. 
The  ornamentation  comes  as  near  to  being  lace-work 
in  stone  as  architectural  decoration  has  a right  to 
come.  And  for  a fairly  princely  effect,  for  the  sug- 
gestion of  that  organized,  highly  wrought  luxury 
which  we  associate  with  European  social  life,  the 


396  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


spacious  portal  has  always  seemed  to  me  an  achieve- 
ment by  itself.  Hunt  was  possibly  aware  that  he 
had  produced  a masterpiece  in  this  building,  that  he 
had  done  something  in  the  glittering  casket  of  pin- 
nacles and  fretwork  which  neither  he  nor  any  one 
else  in  America  would  surpass,  or  even  rival.  He  had, 
for  once  at  least,  been  a poet  as  well  as  an  architect, 
and  he  caused  himself  to  be  represented  in  stone  upon 
the  roof  of  the  house.  You  may  see  the  statue  there 
any  day  as  you  pass  along  Fifth  Avenue,  a little  fig- 
ure clothed  as  an  artisan.  It  is  a pleasant  conceit, 
and  one  which  fits  the  building  as  it  would  have  fitted 
no  other  designed  by  Hunt.  The  French  chateau 
which  he  built  for  Mr.  George  Vanderbilt  in  the  South 
has  advantages  which  this  city  house  lacks,  a beauti- 
ful site  and  unlimited  free  space  around  it.  But  that 
design  is  not,  to  my  mind,  half  so  sympathetic  as  its 
urban  predecessor. 

The  difference  is  significant,  reviving  that  question 
of  personality  to  which  I have  more  than  once  re- 
ferred. Hunt’s  instinct  was  always  for  restraint,  for 
a subordination  of  personal  feeling  to  reasoned  prin- 
ciple. Turn  from  the  W.  K.  Vanderbilt  house  to  the 
J.  J.  Astor  house  in  Fifth  Avenue,  facing  the  Park,  and 
the  Gerry  house  near  by.  There  is  less  charm  in 
them  than  in  the  miniature  chateau.  But  they  are 
admirable  illustrations  of  what  can  be  done  for  Amer- 
ican architecture  with  French  ideas,  when  these  are 
employed  as  ideas  and  not  as  mechanical  formulas. 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  397 


They  make  for  clearly  articulated  and  interesting 
design,  for  a well-bred  elegance,  for  a quality  which 
may  not  be  startlingly  original  but  is  neither,  on  the 
other  hand,  mediocre  nor  colorless.  Hunt’s  predi- 
lections made  him,  on  the  whole,  more  successful 
with  city  houses  than  with  country  dwellings  and, 
in  fact,  the  best  things  he  did  in  country  architecture, 
apart  from  the  Southern  chateau  just  mentioned, 
were  modifications  of  his  accustomed  style.  The 
Cornelius  Vanderbilt  house  at  Newport  presents  more 
than  a modification.  It  was  really  based  on  the 
buildings  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  in  many  of  its 
most  important  features.  But  even  here  the  design 
is  brought  together  under  the  influence  of  a spirit 
closely  related  to  Hunt’s  earliest  training.  You  can 
tell  in  a moment  that  the  designer  of  this  work  was 
taught  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts.  There  are  indi- 
cations of  it  in  the  grouping,  in  the  massing  of  the 
different  parts.  Working  toward  the  close  of  his  ca- 
reer Hunt  may  have  tried  to  move  freely  in  the  style 
of  the  Renaissance,  but  he  could  not  quite  cast  off  the 
academic  mode  he  had  been  following  for  years. 

Better  than  either  his  city  houses  or  his  country 
houses  were  Hunt’s  public  buildings.  There  the  old 
worker  on  the  Louvre  came  back  to  the  problems 
that  interested  him  most  and  that  were  worthiest  of 
his  faculties.  The  Lenox  Library,  swept  not  so  long 
ago  by  the  march  of  time  from  its  beautiful  site  op- 
posite the  Park  in  New  York,  had  no  charm  at  all; 


398  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


but  it  was  never  meant  to  have  any,  and  at  the  risk 
of  seeming  to  labor  the  point  I must  reiterate  that 
just  here  we  come  again  upon  this  architect’s  shining 
virtue.  The  Lenox  Library,  repellent  as  it  was,  was 
also  superbly  sound,  a piece  of  rigorous  scholarship. 
I used  to  shiver  before  its  bleakness,  but  I used  to 
rejoice  in  its  finality — at  the  sureness  and  repose  dis- 
cernible in  its  unified  proportions.  It  had  the  gran- 
deur of  some  ancient  monolith.  In  its  majestic  sim- 
plicity it  read  American  architects  an  unforgettable 
lesson.  And  at  this  point  it  is  delightful  to  recur 
to  Hunt’s  flexibility,  his  demonstration  of  the  fact 
that  that  discipline  which  he  had  himself  obeyed  and 
loved  to  impose  meant  no  handicap  whatever  to  the 
true  architect.  I would  cite  now  the  Administration 
Building  at  the  World’s  Fair  at  Chicago,  wherein  he 
struck  the  note  that  was  peculiarly  his,  the  grandiose 
note  of  a kind  of  formal  magnificence,  of  academic 
and  official  dignity.  There  was  no  building  at  the 
fair  more  precisely  adapted  to  its  position  and  pur- 
poses, more  perfect  in  its  field,  than  the  splendid 
structure  at  the  entrance  to  the  grounds.  It  was  bril- 
liant, as  befitted  the  place  and  the  occasion,  but  it 
was  also  designed  with  the  right  formality.  It  was 
as  picturesque  as  could  have  been  desired,  yet  it  was 
obviously  academic.  Its  proportions  were  good,  its 
details  were  good,  it  fell  judiciously  into  its  given 
space,  and  yet  it  dominated,  as  was  intended,  every- 
thing that  surrounded  it.  Hunt  did  much  for  the 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  399 


artistic  side  of  the  fair.  His  energy  flowed  every- 
where and  was  of  endless  service  to  the  army  of 
workers  concentrated  in  Jackson  Park.  But  his  best 
service  was  rendered  in  showing  how  a public  build- 
ing could  be  designed  with  originality  and  yet  with 
reserve;  independently,  and  yet  in  a sort  of  worldly- 
wise  taste;  with  an  American  vivacity  in  its  outline, 
and  yet  with  a dignity  that  makes  even  the  most 
festal  of  buildings  impressive.  It  was  this  building, 
coming  near  the  end  of  a career  which  had  through- 
out been  fruitful  of  fine  results,  that  brought  Hunt 
the  gold  medal  of  the  Royal  Institute  of  British  Ar- 
chitects, an  honor  conferred  by  the  Queen  through  the 
great  professional  society  of  England  and  regarded 
as  one  of  the  chief  prizes  of  architectural  merit  in 
the  world.  He  was  always  being  thus  recognized  by 
the  professional  bodies  of  his  own  country  and  of 
Europe,  and  not  simply  because  he  had  designed  this 
or  that  good  building  but  because  the  wholesomeness 
of  his  broad  influence  came  more  and  more  to  be  real- 
ized. His  genius  worked  like  a leaven,  the  leaven  of 
wise  authority.  In  his  work  men  could  see  the  virtue 
of  careful,  impersonal  training;  from  it  they  could 
infer  the  absolute  necessity  of  some  ordered  principles 
to  the  development  of  a work  of  art  with  consistency 
as  well  as  with  flexibility.  Richardson  heightened 
our  architectural  enthusiasm.  Hunt  did  much  to 
chasten  and  organize  it. 


400  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


III 

CHARLES  F.  McKIM 

As  we  have  seen,  it  was  not  so  very  long  ago,  as 
years  are  counted,  that  our  architecture  was  flung 
into  the  melting-pot,  but  the  moment  now  seems  his- 
torical. The  artist  in  building  was  coming  into  his 
own.  It  was  good  to  be  alive  and  in  the  midst  of 
tremendous  changes,  which  seemed  none  the  less  tre- 
mendous because  the  public  at  large  was  hardly  aware 
of  what  was  going  on.  I was  there,  in  my  youth,  and 
I known  Architecture  was  more  important  than  any 
other  human  interest,  and  in  New  York  at  all  events 
it  was  tempting  to  believe  that  its  fortunes  for  the 
entire  country  were  largely  in  the  hands  of  one  group 
of  men.  Everybody  knew  and  honored  the  two  pio- 
neers whose  careers  I have  sketched,  and  everybody 
knew  that  certain  other  brilliant  men  were  at  work. 
There  was,  for  instance,  a memorable  stir  when  Babb, 
Cook  and  Willard  built  a warehouse  in  Duane  Street 
placing  a new  and  beautiful  stamp  upon  commercial 
architecture.  But  the  rising  tide  was  dominated  by 
one  firm,  that  formed  when  Charles  F.  McKim,  Wil- 
liam Rutherford  Mead,  and  Stanford  White  settled 
down  in  the  later  seventies  to  work  in  harness.  They 
were  foreordained  to  be  associated  together,  each  con- 
tributing something  that  the  others  lacked,  while  all 
three  moved  naturally  to  a common  end.  Young 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  401 


men  of  talent,  many  of  whom  now  occupy  command- 
ing positions  in  their  profession,  came  trooping  into 
the  old  office,  which  was  an  office  in  name  but  had  the 
character  of  a studio.  The  first  of  our  modern  sky- 
scrapers, a modest  enough  affair,  had  just  gone  up 
on  lower  Broadway,  but  problems  of  steel  construc- 
tion then  gave  little  if  any  concern  to  McKim  and 
his  followers.  If  they  had  dealings  with  engineers, 
their  associations  were  more  intimate  with  painters 
and  sculptors,  and  the  men  in  the  allied  professions 
who  were  part  of  their  circle  were  men  like  La  Farge 
and  Saint-Gaudens.  The  artistic  temperament,  pure 
and  simple,  had  everything  its  own  way.  The  im- 
portant thing  was  just  to  make  a building  beautiful. 
It  was  inspiring  to  observe  the  manner  in  which  Mc- 
Kim showed  how  this  was  to  be  done.  The  task  of 
exhibiting  the  play  of  his  influence  is  a little  difficult, 
but  it  is  full  of  interest. 

In  a work  of  collaboration,  two  or  more  men  may 
so  skilfully  fuse  their  identities  as  to  puzzle  even 
themselves,  to  say  nothing  of  the  public;  but  sooner 
or  later  the  world  comes  to  know  just  what  each 
brought  to  the  study  of  a given  problem.  Character 
will  out.  You  cannot  hide  individual  genius  behind 
a firm  name.  In  discussion  of  the  buildings  designed 
by  McKim,  Mead  and  White,  it  has  been  customary 
to  recognize  the  exceptional  unity  of  that  partner- 
ship, and  to  leave  unanswered  the  question  as  to 
which  one  of  the  three  may  have  determined  this  or 


402  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


that  element  in  the  style  practised  by  them  all.  Re- 
serve in  the  matter  has  been  very  natural.  An  anal- 
ysis of  their  work  which  seeks  to  carry  the  inquiry 
thus  far  soon  threatens  to  entangle  the  critic  in  a clas- 
sification of  specific  buildings,  and  that  is  not  only  in- 
trusive but  full  of  peril.  For  example,  the  faculty 
of  Stanford  White  was  romantic,  and  even  playful. 
He  had  some  of  the  gifts  of  the  painter,  as  certain 
brilliant  drawings  of  his  attest,  and  he  would  have 
been  a painter  if  La  Farge,  to  whom  he  went  for  ad- 
vice on  the  subject,  had  not  urged  him  to  be  an 
architect  instead.  But  White,  who  could  be  decora- 
tive to  the  point  of  the  rococo,  could  also  express 
himself  in  the  purest,  most  classical,  of  architectural 
terms.  I remember  a talk  with  him  about  the  fine 
cornice  of  the  Tiffany  building,  in  which  the  point 
of  view  he  disclosed  was  that  of  an  architect  engaged 
upon  a positively  austere  conception.  It  is  idle, 
then,  to  attempt  to  parcel  out  the  achievements  of 
the  firm.  On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  equally 
foolish,  in  speaking  of  McKim,  to  evade  the  detach- 
ment of  his  personality  from  the  working  scheme  to 
which  he  contributed  so  much.  To  any  one  familiar 
with  the  subject  he  must  remain  as  clearly  defined  a 
figure  in  our  architecture  as  any  of  the  leaders  in  our 
sculpture  or  painting. 

An  artist  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  term,  an 
artist  of  fresh  and  original  traits,  he  was  also  a 
type  of  intellect  driving  at  beauty,  and  deep  re- 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  403 


flection  went  to  the  making  of  his  work.  His  prin- 
ciples were  thought  out,  not  emotionally  improvised. 
They  started  with  the  organic  character  of  a build- 
ing, whose  functions  were  to  find  not  only  charming 
but  right  expression.  Thus  he  never  did  anything 
merely  for  effect;  his  facades  might  be  never  so  orig- 
inal but  you  would  recognize  always  their  absolute 
fitness.  His  buildings  unmistakably  belonged  to  their 
sites.  This  fact  has  been  obscured  for  some  commen- 
tators by  the  not  infrequent  modelling  of  one  of 
those  buildings  upon  some  historic  European  monu- 
ment. Argument  has  gone  off  at  a tangent,  confu- 
sing the  question  of  policy  involved  with  the  question 
of  the  artist’s  pure  constructive  purpose.  Ignore  for 
a moment  this  matter  of  the  adaptation  of  foreign 
designs  and  look  simply  to  the  inquiry  as  to  whether 
McKim  did  not  work  out  his  problem  from  the  cen- 
tre, giving  his  buildings  an  ineffaceable  stamp  elo- 
quent of  their  purpose.  I cheerfully  make  the  reader 
a present  of  the  fact  that  more  than  once  in  the  great 
mass  of  work  to  be  considered  he  is  bound  to  come 
across  a design  frankly  taken  from  the  past.  The 
debts  thus  to  be  discovered  leave  McKim  wholly 
solvent.  His  occasional  reproduction  of  particular 
models  did  not  conflict  with  a vital  fashion  of  han- 
dling practical  issues.  His  genius  worked  in  the  stuff 
of  American  life.  He  took  our  social  and  civic  needs 
into  his  mind  and  proceeded  to  satisfy  them,  not  as 
a dilettante  erecting  handsome  screens  upon  the  high- 


404  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


way  but  as  a creative  builder,  and,  in  the  process  of 
leaving  a library  or  a church,  a clubhouse  or  a State 
capitol,  a building  with  a soul,  he  framed  for  us 
something  like  a new  architectural  language. 

He  could  do  this,  for  one  reason,  because  he  began 
at  the  beginning.  He  was  never  one  of  those  designers 
content  to  rest  satisfied  with  work  of  the  sort  that 
merely  looks  well  on  paper.  Building  materials  were 
to  him  what  pigments  are  to  the  painter;  he  handled 
them  with  the  same  intensely  personal  feeling  for 
their  essential  qualities  that  a great  technician  of 
the  brush  brings  to  the  manipulation  of  his  colors, 
and  he  left  upon  his  productions  the  same  auto- 
graphic stamp.  Stanford  White  had  no  keener  pas- 
sion for  the  effectiveness,  as  decoration,  of  a rich 
Flemish  tapestry  or  a twisted  and  gilded  old  Spanish 
column,  than  McKim  had  for  the  structural  character 
of  a well-laid  course  of  stone.  I recall  an  incident 
typical  of  his  solicitude  for  material,  for  the  effect  of 
an  idea  embodied  in  the  disposition  of  just  so  much 
substance.  It  was  at  the  time  of  the  building  of 
the  Boston  Public  Library.  Certain  sheets  of  marble 
were  to  be  put  up  in  the  entrance-hall  — Numidian,  I 
think  they  were  — and  their  dimensions  were  deter- 
mined by  McKim  with  the  utmost  care.  He  regarded 
those  dimensions  as  essential  to  the  ensemble,  but 
when  the  marble  was  delivered  it  was  found  that 
they  had  not  been  rigidly  followed.  Forthwith  the 
sheets  were  rejected.  The  contractor  argued  at  tre- 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  405 


mendous  length  and  almost  wept,  but  McKim  was 
harder  than  the  Numidian  itself.  He  was  dealing  in 
marble,  I repeat,  as  an  artist  deals  in  paint,  and  he 
would  no  more  submit  to  a change  in  the  appearance 
of  the  surfaces  he  had  planned  than  a painter  would 
allow  his  color-man  to  dictate  the  final  condition  of 
his  picture.  The  joints  were  to  come  where  he 
wanted  them.  I make  much  of  this  episode  because 
it  stands  for  temperament,  for  an  inborn  gift.  You 
cannot  learn  fastidiousness  like  that.  The  right  di- 
mensions of  a piece  of  material  for  a given  position 
in  a building  can  no  more  be  figured  up  and  com- 
municated by  a pedagogue  than  the  secrets  of  color 
and  texture,  to  be  similarly  applied,  can  be  formu- 
lated in  the  schools.  To  think  of  McKim  is  to  think 
of  a genius  expressing  itself  through  the  stuff  of  ar- 
chitecture as  creative  genius  expresses  itself  in  all 
the  other  arts,  somehow  identifying  itself  with  the 
very  grain  and  fibre  of  that  in  which  it  works. 

The  instinctive  character  of  McKim’s  gift  comes 
out  in  the  earliest  pages  of  his  biography.  When,  as 
a lad  of  nineteen,  he  began  his  professional  studies 
at  Harvard,  in  1866,  the  drift  of  his  artistic  nature 
would  appear  to  have  been  fixed.  It  was,  in  the 
strict  sense,  a constructive  gift.  They  say  that  he 
could  draw  even  then  with  uncommon  facility,  but 
I have  never  heard  of  his  having  passed  through  that 
sketch-book  stage  in  which  a young  architect  is  be- 
trayed into  bizarre  performances  by  the  ease  with 


406  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


which  he  can  use  his  pencil  in  Europe  and  bring 
back  scores  of  supposedly  adaptable  “motives.” 
Later  in  life,  when  he  came  to  give  much  thought  to 
the  training  of  his  juniors,  he  was  wont  to  enforce 
upon  them  the  excellence  of  the  Ecole  des  Beaux 
Arts  as  a source  of  instruction  — and  to  warn  them 
against  its  dangers  as  a source  of  patterns.  He  had 
been  there  himself  and  knew  what  he  was  talking 
about.  Leaving  Harvard  for  Paris  he  entered  the 
Ecole  and  stayed  three  years,  but  if  its  lessons  had 
imposed  any  pedantic  rules  upon  him  his  subsequent 
travels  in  Europe  and  his  innate  tendencies  amply 
protected  him  from  returning  to  America  with  a cut- 
and-dried  hypothesis  for  the  solution  of  his  problems. 

In  the  formation  of  his  own  style  it  was  by  the 
spirit,  not  the  letter,  of  the  old  law  that  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  controlled,  and  this  it  was  that  he  de- 
veloped in  himself,  and  poured  into  the  work  of  his 
firm.  He  developed  it  slowly,  and  very  thoughtfully. 
He  did  not  learn  the  value  of  the  Italian  Renaissance 
as  one  learns  a lesson,  but  gradually  absorbed  it  as 
he  absorbed  classical  ideas  and  some  French  influ- 
ences. Little  by  little  he  came  to  do  his  work  in  a 
kind  of  dry  light,  steadily  getting  rid  of  all  that  was 
superfluous  in  detail,  steadily  expressing  himself  in 
larger  and  simpler  terms.  He  used  the  style  of  the 
Renaissance  just  as  the  late  J.  F.  Bentley  used  that 
of  Byzantium,  when  he  designed  perhaps  the  most 
remarkable  piece  of  pure  architecture  in  our  epoch, 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  407 


the  superb  Roman  Catholic  cathedral  in  London. 
He  used  it,  that  is  to  say,  as  an  instrument  which  he 
had  made  entirely  his  own.  That  accounts  for  the 
reaction  of  his  work  upon  his  “young  men”  and  upon 
the  work  of  many  of  his  contemporaries.  He  was 
effective  in  this  way,  because  he  handed  on  no  aca- 
demic axioms,  but  a habit  of  mind.  When  he  realized 
the  dream  of  his  life  and  founded  the  American  Acad- 
emy at  Rome  it  was  not  to  substitute  an  Italian  for 
a French  formula,  but  to  lead  the  young  student,  al- 
most insensibly,  into  a nobler,  more  disciplined,  and 
yet  freer  way  of  thinking  and  working.  Thus  he 
himself  thought  and  worked,  a steadying  force  in 
American  art.  If  he  had  a genius  for  rule  and  hence 
waxed  in  severity  as  he  progressed,  he  had  also  a 
genius  for  beauty  and  hence  never  ceased  to  charm. 
That  was  what  his  disciples  felt,  and  it  was  through 
that  that  he  helped  them.  It  was  once  my  privilege 
to  go  with  him  through  the  sculpture  galleries  of  the 
Vatican,  making  notes  of  the  statues  that  seemed 
suitable  for  a decorative  plan  then  in  the  air.  There 
had  been  talk  of  reproducing  a quantity  of  classical 
sculpture  in  plaster  casts,  to  be  distributed  through 
the  grounds  of  the  Chicago  Fair,  and  together  we  pre- 
pared a long  list.  The  experience  was  one  to  remem- 
ber with  gratitude.  McKim  saw  those  sculptured 
episodes,  as  he  intended  them  to  be,  in  all  their  pos- 
sible relations.  If  he  accepted  or  rejected  a sugges- 
tion, his  comments  bore  partly  upon  the  intrinsic 


408  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


qualities  of  the  statue,  but  more  upon  its  probable  ef- 
fect against  the  background  at  Chicago.  He  would 
pause  before  some  piece,  and  in  a few  words  explain 
its  fitness  or  its  uselessness.  I vividly  remember  how 
the  man  at  whose  feet  I sat  enlarged  my  horizon, 
and  put  the  ■whole  question  of  sculptural  decoration 
into  a new  perspective. 

When  in  his  early  manhood  he  came  back  to  his 
own  land  to  make  a career  he  worked  for  a time  under 
Richardson,  and  I know  no  better  testimony  to  his 
artistic  poise  than  you  may  find  in  his  emergence  un- 
scathed from  the  influence  of  that  brilliant  man.* 
Sometimes  it  has  seemed  surprising  to  me  that  he 
was  not,  at  least  in  his  formative  years,  brought 
more  under  subjection  to  the  designer  of  Trinity. 
Yet,  on  a moment’s  reflection,  one  always  remem- 
bers the  importance  of  sheer  taste  in  the  history  of 
the  three  partners  and  how  much  this  matter  meant 
to  McKim.  Naturally  he  swerved  aside  from  the 
broad  and  luxuriant  path  along  which  Richardson 

* It  is  interesting,  by  the  way,  to  compare  the  Higginson  and 
Whittier  houses  built  side  by  side  in  Beacon  Street,  years  ago,  re- 
spectively by  Richardson  and  by  McKim’s  firm,  the  latter  then  in  its 
first  “period.”  The  two  designs  were  produced  in  the  most  amicable 
rivalry.  It  was  intended  that  they  should  harmonize.  Unquestion- 
ably they  go  well  together.  Obviously,  too,  both  are  the  work  of 
artists.  Let  us  not  look  for  elements  of  superiority  in  either  the  one 
or  the  other.  But  in  looking  for  the  points  of  difference,  and  this  is 
surely  legitimate,  may  we  not  note  that  the  Whittier  design  is  much 
lighter  in  hand  than  its  neighbor,  that  the  makers  of  it  were  willing 
to  leave  a certain  weightiness  to  Richardson,  preferring  grace,  ele- 
gance, and  a delicate  linear  charm?  All  that  was  very  characteristic 
of  McKim. 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  409 


moved  at  such  a generous  gait.  If  we  imagine  a 
Whistler  sojourning  for  a little  while,  interestedly 
enough,  in  the  atelier  of  a Rubens,  but  presently 
going  forth  to  develop,  as  a matter  of  course,  a totally 
different  style  of  his  own,  we  can  form  a fair  work- 
ing idea  of  what  McKim  did  when  he  and  White 
and  Mead  set  about  making  their  mark.  To  say 
that  they  began  to  make  it  with  a kind  of  cleverness 
would  be  to  understate  the  case,  and  at  the  same  time 
there  is  something  justly  descriptive  in  the  phrase. 
Certainly  there  is  no  occasion  for  critical  solemnities 
on  the  buildings  through  which  they  felt  their  way 
toward  a style  of  their  own.  I am  thinking  especially 
of  things  like  the  Casino  at  Newport  and  divers  cot- 
tages that  they  built  there  in  the  ’8o’s.  I am  think- 
ing, too,  of  the  little  music  hall  at  Short  Hills  in  New 
Jersey,  which  I used  to  see  at  the  end  of  a long  walk 
every  Sunday  one  summer.  There  was  positive  re- 
freshment in  coming  upon  that  modest  bit  of  coun- 
try architecture;  it  was  so  original,  so  picturesque, 
and,  withal,  so  perfectly  adapted  to  its  site.  You 
saw  at  once  that  here  was  a new  conception  of  what 
needed  to  be  done  with  an  old  problem,  a new  art  in 
place  of  an  old  sort  of  journeyman’s  craft.  The  nov- 
elty sprang,  of  course,  from  the  brains  of  McKim 
and  his  colleagues,  but  it  is,  perhaps,  worth  while  to 
note  here  another  quarter  whence  the  new  move- 
ment got  part  of  its  impetus. 

Very  little,  if  anything,  has  been  said  about  the 


410  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


social  developments  which  synchronized  with  the 
early  progress  of  this  firm.  It  is  in  no  uncompli- 
mentary sense  that  they  may  be  described  as  the 
fashionable  architects  of  their  time.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  designation  is  to  be  employed  in  all  seri- 
ousness and  honor.  It  was  their  good  fortune  to 
come  upon  the  scene  just  at  a time  when  people  of 
wealth  were  taking  a new  interest  in  the  beautifica- 
tion of  their  environment.  Private  collections  of  pic- 
tures and  other  works  of  art  were  not  only  increas- 
ing in  number,  but  were  being  formed  with  reference 
to  higher  critical  standards.  In  the  furnishing  of 
houses  a more  lavish  expenditure  was  accompanied 
by  a desire  for  a better  scheme  of  decoration.  Modes 
of  social  entertainment  grew  richer  and  more  com- 
plicated as  they  grew  more  costly.  It  is  flattering  to 
our  self-esteem  to  believe  that  we  were  always  at 
home  in  palaces,  but,  as  a matter  of  fact,  the  splen- 
dors of  American  social  life  date  from  the  last  quar- 
ter of  a century,  an  educational  period  if  ever  there 
was  one.  At  Newport  and  elsewhere  a type  of  dwell- 
ing was  in  demand  such  as  had  not  got  itself  created 
since  long  before  the  war.  Moreover,  prior  to  the 
sixties,  North  or  South,  the  owner  of  a prosperous 
house  let  himself  go  chiefly  in  respect  to  scale,  and 
while  his  taste  at  the  best  aimed  in  the  safe  direction 
of  simplicity  he  gave  little  thought  to  art  as  art. 
McKim’s  clients  were  quite  willing  that  he  should 
think  of  nothing  else.  There,  I venture  to  say,  you 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  41 1 


have  the  secret  of  his  opportunity  and  one  key  to 
what  he  made  of  it.  Men  of  means  wanted  new 
houses  and  were  as  keen  on  having  these  made  beau- 
tiful and  distinguished  as  though  they  were  acquir- 
ing the  paintings  and  sculptures  of  foreign  masters. 
The  Casino  at  Newport  is  possibly  the  most  repre- 
sentative of  the  country  buildings  erected  by  McKim, 
Mead  and  White,  at  this  period.  It  is  representative 
alike  in  its  fitness  for  the  purpose  to  which  it  was 
assigned  and  in  what  I can  only  describe  as  its  re- 
strained picturesqueness.  In  breaking  with  a tradi- 
tion of  dulness  the  firm  did  not  consider  it  necessary 
to  turn  violent  or  bizarre.  Nothing  could  be  fresher, 
more  unconventional,  than  this  Casino,  or  the  house 
for  Robert  Goelet  at  Newport,  or  the  Osborne  house 
at  Mamaroneck;  but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  nothing 
could  be  more  judiciously  studied,  more  refined,  more 
delicately  expressive  of  a luxurious  but  beautiful  ideal. 
What  McKim  did  in  the  country  he  did  in  the  city, 
in  such  houses  as  the  one  for  Mr.  Whittier,  which  I 
have  already  cited,  or  those  for  Mr.  Drayton,  Mr. 
Cutting,  and  Mr.  Phoenix  in  New  York.  He  suc- 
ceeded in  the  difficult  task  of  blending  dignity  and 
repose  with  a certain  piquancy.  A design  framed  by 
him  and  his  partners  was  always  a serious  work  of 
art,  and  it  was  always  amusing,  to  use  the  word  with 
the  implication  it  carries  in  French  criticism.  De- 
cidedly McKim,  Mead  and  White  were  the  archi- 
tects for  an  expanding  social  era,  as  were  those  mas- 


412  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


ters  who  built  the  city  palaces  and  country  villas  of 
the  rich  Romans  and  Florentines  of  the  Renaissance. 

If  they  had  stopped  there  they  would  still  be  re- 
membered, but  they  were  bound  to  press  further  and 
win  a wider  fame  — bound  both  by  the  conditions  of 
American  life  and  by  the  nature  of  their  resources. 
Everything  conspired  to  lead  them  on  from  archi- 
tecture that  was  charming  to  architecture  that 
was  monumental,  and,  on  occasion,  in  the  grand 
style.  Here,  I think,  is  where  we  cannot  but 
recognize  the  steadily  ripening  influence  of  McKim. 
The  genius  that  was  so  easily  and  so  happily  exer- 
cised upon  the  problems  of  dwelling-houses  in  city 
and  country  inevitably  craved  a larger  outlet.  The 
firm  has  for  years  gone  on  designing  private  houses, 
but  it  is  significant  that  most  of  these  have  latterly 
been  very  stately  affairs,  on  an  imposing  scale.  The 
essential  history  of  McKim  is  to  be  traced  in  a long 
succession  of  heroic  buildings,  starting  with  the  Vil- 
lard  block  in  New  York  and  the  Public  Library  in 
Boston,  and  coming  down  to  the  Pennsylvania  Sta- 
tion in  New  York.  In  the  contemplation  of  these 
edifices  we  abandon  all  thought  of  those  “amusing” 
qualities  to  which  I have  alluded,  and  think  of  graver 
things;  but  before  touching  upon  the  purely  mon- 
umental aspects  of  McKim’s  work  I must  glance 
again,  in  passing,  at  that  flair  of  his  for  materials  and 
at  a friendly,  intimate  quality  which  he  carried  from 
his  earlier  experience  on  into  larger  fields.  As  he  at- 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  413 


tacked  more  ambitious  themes  he  did  not  lose  touch 
with  the  sentiment  of  the  life  around  him,  sacrifi- 
cing personal  feeling  to  scholarship.  To  see  how 
tactfully,  how  sympathetically  he  could  deal  with 
subjects  apart  from  ordinary  private  life  and  yet 
untouched  by  the  heavy  hand  that  governs  the  pur- 
poses of  the  average  public  building,  one  has  but  to 
look  at  such  things  as  the  Harvard  Club  in  New  York, 
the  Harvard  Gates  at  Cambridge,  the  big  building 
for  the  University  of  Virginia  at  Charlottesville,  the 
Women’s  Building  for  the  University  of  Illinois  at  Ur- 
bana  and  the  buildings  for  the  Army  War  College  at 
Washington.  In  the  first  place,  the  work  done  in 
these  designs  shows  invariably  with  what  judgment 
and  taste  McKim  could  use  brick,  when  he  chose,  a 
material  for  which  the  firm  long  ago  declared  its  ef- 
fective appreciation.  (The  vast  chateau-like  house, 
built  for  Mr.  C.  L.  Tiffany  in  New  York,  when  the 
firm  was  coming  into  repute,  is  alone  impressive  evi- 
dence of  a truly  artistic  faculty  for  the  treatment  of 
this  material.)  Furthermore,  the  buildings  I have 
named  and  the  gates  at  Cambridge  are  remarkable 
for  their  possession  of  a dignity  that  is  not  too  aus- 
tere. You  are  impressed  but  you  are  not  overpow- 
ered. Something  gracious  and  even  beguiling  appeals 
to  you  through  the  very  serious  scheme  of  design  that 
is  in  each  instance  worked  out. 

McKim  knew  how  to  take  a high  view  of  his  sub- 
ject. He  did  not  know  how  to  be  harsh  or  bleak. 


414  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


Was  it  not  just  his  gift  for  beauty  that  kept  him 
thus  on  the  warm,  human  side  of  things,  the  same 
joyously  creative  impulse  that  had  caused  him  to 
play  so  ingeniously  with  the  little  fabrics  the  firm 
put  together  at  Newport?  By  all  the  rules  of  the 
Academy  a style  so  pure  as  his  should  have  culmi- 
nated at  a point  spelling  mere  coldness  for  the  ordi- 
nary observer,  but  McKim  had  a way  of  softening 
his  severities  when  he  felt  that  it  was  required.  See 
how  he  modified  the  rather  gaunt  lines  of  the  Italian 
palace  he  built  for  the  University  Club  in  New  York 
by  the  decorative  touches  which  balconies  and 
carven  seals  give  to  the  fagades.  I remember,  too, 
the  brilliant  New  York  State  Building  at  the  Chicago 
Fair  in  1893.  He  made  it  a better  building,  a better 
piece  of  pure  architecture,  than  the  Villa  Medicis  at 
Rome,  on  which  he  modelled  it.  But  what  made  it 
so  extraordinarily  successful  was  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  the  festal  urbanity  with  which  he  tempered 
the  majestic  character  of  the  design.  The  building 
was  unmistakably  monumental,  but  it  was  a cheerful, 
welcoming  structure,  fitting  with  absolute  precision 
into  the  holiday  picture  made  by  the  exposition  at 
large.  We  know  how  devotedly  he  and  his  numer- 
ous associates  in  the  great  undertaking  at  Chicago 
strove  to  preserve  a classical  sobriety  amongst  the 
main  exposition  buildings,  how  earnest  they  were  in 
their  plans  for  a really  noble  sky-line,  and,  in  short, 
how  one  of  the  most  popular  of  modern  demonstra- 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  415 


tions  was  charged  with  an  artistic  lesson.  No  one 
there  was  more  exacting  than  was  McKim,  no  one 
there  was  more  steadfast  in  the  advocacy  of  a lofty 
architectural  standard.  But  no  one,  I may  add,  was 
a subtler  adept  in  the  process  of  enveloping  serious 
ideas  in  garments  of  winning  loveliness. 

At  the  bottom  of  all  his  studies  was  not  only  that 
gift  for  beauty  which  I have  mentioned,  but  a pro- 
found conviction  of  the  place  of  character  in  archi- 
tecture. The  purpose  of  a building,  the  use  to  which 
it  was  destined,  was  something  more  than  a practical 
condition  enforced  upon  him  by  a client;  it  was  an 
appeal  to  his  imagination,  stimulating  his  powers  of 
design  just  as  a proposal  for  a statue  will  set  a sculp- 
tor’s fingers  tingling  to  press  the  clay.  McKim  was 
not,  any  more  than  any  other  great  artist,  infallible, 
and  he  had  to  learn  some  things  by  experience.  The 
Public  Library  in  Boston  has  been  criticised  as  fall- 
ing short  of  perfection  in  respect  to  its  utilitarian 
function.  Perhaps  it  is  not  impeccable.  I confess 
that  while  I was  in  and  out  of  it  frequently  at  the 
time  of  its  erection,  and  have  since  explored  it  more 
than  once,  I have  never  gone  broodingly  about  the 
testing  of  its  every  corner.  It  is  possible,  no  doubt, 
that  there  are  rooms  in  which  the  reader  might 
wish  for  a little  better  light.  But,  when  all  is 
said,  where,  in  this  country,  will  you  find  a nobler 
library  building,  a nobler  library  building  of  the 
same  scale  and  put  to  the  same  popular  uses?  I 


41 6 Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


know  that  McKim  and  his  partners  gave  unend- 
ing study  to  the  problem,  and  I can  see  him  in 
Rome,  years  ago,  poring  over  its  monuments  as  one 
turns  the  pages  of  a book,  looking  for  further  inspira- 
tion. He  had  one  of  his  draughtsmen  with  him,  on 
whom  he  would  call  to  sketch  one  detail  or  another 
that  interested  him.  Was  it  in  order  that  he  might 
slavishly  reproduce  that  detail?  Not  for  a moment. 
It  was  rather  as  though  he  were  yielding  himself  to 
the  play  of  ideas  as  he  interrogated  the  old  mas- 
ters, and  wanted  to  jot  down  suggestive  points  de- 
veloped in  the  process.  These  were  not  so  much 
co-ordinated  with  his  central  scheme  as  they  were 
subtly  absorbed  into  it,  to  fertilize  and  enrich  it. 
He  was  a striking  instance  of  the  artist  who  consults 
the  past  for  a kind  of  broad  invigoration,  never  as  a 
methodical  copyist. 

In  the  presence  of  buildings  like  the  one  at  Boston, 
or  the  State-House  at  Providence,,  or  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Station  in  New  York,  or  Mr.  Morgan’s  inimi- 
table little  library,  the  student  feels  that  he  is  down 
to  the  bed-rock  of  pure  architecture.  Nothing  ex- 
perimental is  visible,  you  find  nothing  irrelevant, 
nothing  that  is  understated  or  overdone.  The  bones 
of  the  design,  so  to  say,  are  faultlessly  articulated, 
faultlessly  with  reference  to  the  practical  idea  at  the 
heart  of  the  problem,  and  to  this  unit  of  construction 
there  is  given  an  envelope  of  beautiful  simplicity.  If 
there  is  decoration  to  be  reckoned  with  you  scarcely 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  417 


notice  it;  it  is  made  part  and  parcel  of  the  mass  with 
such  unerring  taste.  What  you  notice  above  all  is 
the  achievement  of  something  like  grandeur  with  a 
singularly  elastic  touch.  Take,  for  example,  the  pil- 
lared fagades  of  the  Pennsylvania  Station.  For  a 
positively  Roman  weight  and  majesty  it  would  be 
impossible  to  beat  that  building  in  modern  architec- 
ture. But  neither  could  you  find  it  anywhere  sur- 
passed for  a beauty  that  I can  perhaps  best  indicate 
as  a beauty  brimming  over  with  nervous  force,  really 
vitalized,  as  though  the  thing  which  we  call  style 
were  fairly  singing  in  stone.  The  march  of  those 
columns  is  superb,  luring  the  eye  until  it  forgets  the 
immobility  of  walls,  cornices,  and  so  on,  and  is  lost 
in  sensuous  delight.  It  is  a huge  structure,  and,  for 
the  mind  sensitive  to  the  great  pageant  of  our  ma- 
terial progress,  it  is  fraught  with  ideas  of  tremendous 
and  even  ruthless  power.  After  all,  a building  like 
this  is  symbolical  of  one  of  the  forces  of  our  national 
life,  and  a poet  might  reasonably  finger  before  it, 
presently  translating  into  words  the  thought  it  raises 
of  an  irresistible  might.  But  the  right  poet  would 
turn  what  is  severe  and  terrible  about  such  a concen- 
tration of  energy  into  terms  of  pure  beauty,  and  this 
is  what  has  been  done  by  the  genius  of  architecture  di- 
rected upon  so  seemingly  prosaic  a thing  as  a vast  rail- 
way station.  The  building  is  true  in  its  very  essence 
to  the  railway’s  need.  It  is  also  supremely  beautiful. 

We  think  in  large  terms  in  this  country.  Our  area 
is  immense,  our  population  is  enormous;  politically, 


418  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


socially,  and  in  our  industrial  relations  we  are  inces- 
santly affected  by  the  unprecedented  width  of  our 
horizon.  It  is  a commonplace  of  satirical  criticism 
that  “bigness”  is  an  American  foible.  Neither  the 
painter  nor  the  sculptor  is  ordinarily  required  to  come 
to  close  quarters  with  that  foible.  The  architect 
alone  is  forever  confronted  by  it,  and  therefore  ex- 
posed to  a cruel  temptation.  McKim  mastered  it. 
He  liked,  I think,  to  tackle  heroic  issues.  In  the 
latter  part  of  his  career  he  threw  himself  with  gusto 
upon  the  solution  of  problems  like  the  one  presented 
in  the  Pennsylvania  Station.  His  genius  had  an  even 
more  extensive  range,  as  one  may  gather  from  the 
share  he  took  in  the  evolution  of  the  scheme  for  the 
beautifying  of  the  city  of  Washington.  Who  could 
have  blamed  him  if,  in  the  prosecution  of  campaigns 
so  portentous  in  scope,  he  had  completely  lost  sight 
of  those  ideals  of  exquisiteness,  of  charm,  of  delicately 
fervid  art,  with  which  he  had  begun  his  work?  He 
never  lost  sight  of  them  but  went  on,  as  the  years 
passed,  rising  to  greater  opportunities  with  increasing 
firmness  of  grasp  and  with  increasing  feeling  for 
beauty.  He  was  always  a builder  in  the  truest, 
manliest  sense  of  the  term,  and  he  was  always  an 
artist.  It  is  in  this  dual  character  that  McKim  re- 
mains a shining  figure  in  our  annals. 

I have  tried  to  portray  him  in  relation  to  his  time 
and  especially  to  the  friendly  rivalry  in  which  he  and 
his  colleagues  were  involved  with  Richardson  and 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  419 


Hunt.  These  men  overshadow  practically  all  the 
others  on  the  stage.  But  before  passing  to  the  one 
conspicuous  exception,  the  one  who  played  in  his 
way  a part  equally  effective,  I have  to  speak  of  a man 
of  genius  unknown  to  the  outer  world  and,  indeed, 
no  more  familiar  to  many  of  the  younger  generation 
in  his  profession.  This  was  Joseph  M.  Wells,  who 
died  more  than  twenty  years  ago.  He  was  a quiet, 
meditative  man,  too  shy  in  his  demeanor  to  strike 
one  as  being  eccentric  and  yet  with  something  about 
him  of  the  odd  individuality  which  that  epithet  con- 
notes. There  ;s  a remarkable  portrait  of  him  painted 
by  his  friend  Dewing,  a portrait  of  really  extraordi- 
nary interest  because  of  its  interpretation  of  excep- 
tionally subtle  traits.  Wells  was  a bundle  of  subtle- 
ties — and  of  contrasts.  I remember  his  lending  me 
two  first  editions;  one  was  of  “The  Vision  of  Judg- 
ment,” the  other  of  “The  Rose  and  the  Ring.”  The 
collocation  of  Byron  in  his  bitterest  mood  and  Thack- 
eray in  his  sweetest  was  just  the  paradox  to  expect 
in  Wells.  At  one  moment  his  cynical  humor  would 
vent  itself  in  a saying  rendered  doubly  mordant  by 
the  malin  chuckle  going  with  it.  And  in  the  next, 
as  I knew  from  many  an  occasion  when  we  went  to 
hear  music  together,  he  would  talk  about  Beethoven, 
his  idol,  with  a grave  enthusiasm  and  a sympathy  in- 
dicative only  of  the  loftiest  feeling.  He  had  the  re- 
flective, critical  mind.  His  life  was  an  intellectual 
revery. 


420  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


Such  a man  made  an  ideal  coadjutor  for  McKim 
and  White,  confirming,  clarifying,  and  extending  the 
austerer  inspiration  of  the  one,  aiding  while  restrain- 
ing the  impulses  of  the  other.  That  he  exercised 
this  half-admonitory,  collaborative  function  in  their 
office,  those  two  liberal  artists  would  have  been  the 
first  to  admit.  They  loved  him  for  his  strange,  her- 
mit-like self.  They  admired  and  deeply  respected 
him  for  his  unique  abilities.  He  adored  Bramante  and 
I have  often  wondered  what  he  would  have  said  to 
the  research  which  has  endeavored  to  deprive  that 
master  of  some  of  his  noblest  triumphs.  Wells  had 
tacked  up  on  the  wall  above  his  draughting-table  a 
big  photograph  of  the  court  of  the  Cancelleria,  and 
sometimes  he  would  take  it  as  his  text  when  he  dis- 
coursed to  me  in  his  short,  halting  sentences  on  the 
sanctities  of  architecture.  As  he  regarded  them  they 
were  the  sanctities  of  balance  and  proportion,  of  per- 
fect line,  of  mouldings  reverently  pondered,  of  deco- 
ration most  sparingly  applied.  Like  McKim  he  saw 
not  the  work  on  paper  but  the  completed  edifice.  At 
the  time  of  his  death  there  were  some  wrought-iron 
grilles  to  be  made  for  which  he  had  supplied  only 
rough  drawings,  marking  on  these,  though,  the  exact 
figures  to  be  followed.  When  the  iron-worker  ques- 
tioned the  figures  as  unprecedented  White  told  him, 
nevertheless,  to  obey  them,  loyally  remembering  that 
Wells  always  knew  what  he  was  about.  In  the  up- 
shot the  grilles  only  gave  another  proof  of  this.  I 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  421 


cannot  name  a single  work  of  architecture  as  pure 
Wells,  but  the  group  of  houses  known  as  the  Villard 
block  when  it  was  erected  in  Madison  Avenue  back 
of  the  Cathedral  has  in  it  perhaps  more  of  him  than 
could  be  traced  without  difficulty  anywhere  else.  It 
reveals,  of  course,  his  cult  for  Bramante,  for  the 
Renaissance  both  in  Rome  and  in  Florence,  but  it 
reveals  also  his  freedom  from  anything  like  pedantic 
imitation.  Where  he  and  McKim  were  utterly  at 
one  was  in  the  employment  of  Italian  ideas  in  a 
thoroughly  creative  spirit.  Without  him  McKim 
would  as  surely  have  been  the  great  architect  that 
we  know;  but  with  him  he  was  on  that  much  more 
fertile  ground.  Lost  to  the  general  view  as  he  is, 
behind  the  works  of  his  friends,  Wells  will  still  be 
held  in  honor,  by  those  who  knew  him,  as  one  of  the 
prime  contributors  to  our  Renaissance. 


IV 

DANIEL  H.  BURNHAM 

The  leaders  with  whom  we  have  thus  far  dealt  had 
all  much  the  same  opportunity;  their  chance  was  to 
make,  if  they  could,  beautiful  buildings.  All  the 
time  there  was  another  chance  coming  and  this  was 
seized  by  Daniel  H.  Burnham,  who  was  bom  at  Hen- 
derson, New  York,  in  1846,  and  early  taken  to 
Chicago.  There  he  worked  until  he  died  in  1912. 


422  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


The  gods  were  kind  to  him.  He  came  to  maturity 
at  just  the  time  and  in  just  the  place  favorable  to 
the  development  of  his  special  gifts.  In  partnership 
with  the  late  John  Wellborn  Root,  he  practised  his 
profession  under  conditions  giving  him  a unique 
problem  to  solve.  They  were  not  aesthetic  condi- 
tions; they  were  business  conditions;  and  they  were, 
perhaps,  a little  more  closely  identified  than  any 
others  with  the  daily  movement  of  American  life. 
It  is  customary  when  dealing  with  American  litera- 
ture or  painting  to  talk  about  the  growth  in  this 
country  of  intellectual  interests  and  of  the  love  of 
beauty.  We  take  account  of  progress  made.  We 
speculate  as  to  possible  gains  in  the  future.  If  archi- 
tecture is  our  theme,  we  reflect  more  particularly  on 
the  evolution  of  an  American  style.  Meanwhile  the 
genius  of  the  American  people  has  fully  and  conclu- 
sively expressed  itself,  if  anywhere,  in  the  domain  of 
practical  things,  and  it  has  given  to  architecture  not 
a style  but  a species  — the  office  building  fifteen,  or 
fifty,  stories  high.  It  was  Burnham’s  part  to  illus- 
trate this  species,  to  do  something  in  America  that 
had  never  been  done  elsewhere.  I do  not  mean  that 
he  invented  it,  for  the  entire  profession  has  been  oc- 
cupied, more  or  less,  with  the  construction  of  tall 
buildings  ever  since  the  steel-cage  principle  was  es- 
tablished. It  was  to  his  partner,  John  Root,  too, 
that  much  of  the  character  in  the  earlier  work  of  the 
firm  was  due.  But  from  the  start  Burnham  was  a 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  423 


builder  of  sky-scrapers,  and  it  was  in  that  role  that 
he  achieved  special  distinction.  Though  he  put  to  his 
credit  other  work  of  rich  significance,  as  will  be  seen 
below,  his  office  buildings  belong  in  the  forefront  of 
his  biography. 

Consider  the  need  put  before  him  when  he  under- 
took to  design  them.  It  was  not,  in  the  first  place, 
that  they  should  be  beautiful.  It  was  that  they 
should  contain  so  many  square  feet  of  well-lighted 
space  for  renting  purposes,  the  amount  of  space  that 
would  yield  the  owner  a certain  return  on  his  invest- 
ment. Owners  vary  in  temperament.  Some  of  them 
realize  that  a building  is  the  more  profitable  as  it  is 
the  more  attractive  to  look  upon.  But  in  essentials 
the  demand  framed  above  is  the  demand  made  upon 
all  designers  of  tall  office  buildings.  When  they  set- 
tle down  to  work,  they  have  to  create  a little  cosmos, 
finding  space  for  more  things  than  go  into  any  other 
type  of  building,  with  the  possible  exception  of  a 
great  modern  hotel.  Take  a typical  building  designed 
by  Burnham.  First  come  engine-rooms  that  in  them- 
selves embody  interesting  ideas  of  construction. 
Then  come  safe-deposit  vaults.  On  a higher  level 
you  will  find  shops  and  elaborately  planned  banking 
quarters,  a restaurant,  a rathskeller,  and  a cafe. 
Eight  or  ten  elevators  — some  of  them  expresses  — 
rise  past  hundreds  of  offices  to  club-rooms  that  lie 
just  under  the  roof,  where  a garden  puts  the  last 
touch  to  the  building.  In  the  marble-lined  corridors 


424  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


there  are  faucets  supplying  filtered  ice-water.  There 
is  hot  as  well  as  cold  water  in  the  lavatories.  Cor- 
ners for  the  telegraph  companies  are  not  forgotten. 
Facilities  for  mailing  letters  are  on  every  floor  as  a 
matter  of  course.  The  man  who  chose  to  sleep  in 
his  office  could  live  in  a building  like  this  all  the  year 
round.  Obviously,  the  architect  who  serves  his  inter- 
ests must  be  a master  of  humdrum  detail.  But  he 
must  be  more  than  that  if  he  is  to  satisfy  his  profes- 
sional instinct,  which  is  to  make  the  outside  of  his 
building  expressive  of  its  inner  character.  Here  arises 
a question  which  has  been  getting  itself  discussed  for 
years,  but  which  still  remains  on  debatable  ground. 

The  architect  is  an  artist  quite  as  much  as  the 
painter,  the  sculptor,  or  the  musician,  and  he  is  loath 
to  abdicate  his  artistic  functions  simply  because  he 
is  confronted  by  a problem  apparently  insoluble  on 
a strictly  artistic  hypothesis.  Two  elements  in  that 
problem  drive  him  almost  to  despair.  His  building 
must  be  so  much  greater  in  height  than  in  depth  or 
breadth  that  it  seems  impossible,  to  begin  with,  that 
his  composition  should  have  rational  proportions.  Of 
course  if  lie  could  conceive  of  his  building  simply  as 
a tower,  all  might  go  well;  but  he  is  generally  hemmed 
in  by  other  buildings  on  three  sides,  and,  what  is 
worse,  there  is  his  second  cruel  element  to  be  reck- 
oned with  — the  necessity  for  piercing  the  fagade  on 
every  floor  with  the  greatest  possible  number  of  win- 
dows. There  is  something  grimly  humorous  about 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  425 


his  predicament.  Fate,  grinning  maliciously  over 
his  shoulder,  drives  him  into  an  impasse,  insisting 
that  his  is  an  engineering  problem,  not  an  artistic 
one,  and  urging  him  to  make  the  best  of  a bad  bar- 
gain. It  is  odds,  however,  that  he  will  kick  against 
the  pricks,  and  move  heaven  and  earth  to  show  that 
where  others  have  failed  he  will  triumph,  turning  a sky- 
scraper into  a work  of  art.  There  is  something  touch- 
ing about  the  resolution  with  which  the  architects 
of  America  have  held  to  this  view  of  the  matter.  I 
have  heard  many  of  them  arguing  about  it,  and  sug- 
gesting one  new  way  or  another  out  of  the  impasse 
just  mentioned.  At  a dinner  of  the  Architectural 
League,  a few  years  ago,  the  walls  were  covered  with 
drawings  and  photographs  of  sky-scrapers,  and  all  the 
speeches  of  the  evening  were  devoted  to  the  subject. 
One  member  had  some  interesting  things  to  say  about 
the  use  of  steel  externally  as  well  as  internally.  He 
thought  that  if  the  cage  were  permitted  to  declare 
itself  in  the  facade  instead  of  being  hidden  in  a shell 
of  stone  or  brick,  the  result  would  at  least  be  sincere 
and  might  even  be  made  picturesque.  There  was 
talk,  too,  of  using  sheets  of  metal  decoratively,  and, 
of  course,  the  claims  of  color  were  duly  advocated. 
Polychromatic  fagades  have  been  built  in  Europe, 
and  some  of  them  are  charming,  but  then  they  have 
been  executed  on  a very  modest  scale.  The  experi- 
ment of  treating  the  sky-scraper  in  color  from  top  to 
bottom  has  not  yet  been  tried.  There  is  a chimney- 


426  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


like  building  in  Chicago  over  which  I believe  Mr. 
Root  used  to  let  his  color  sense  play  in  imagination, 
but  his  dream  was  never  realized.  I could  not  help 
feeling  at  the  League  dinner  to  which  I have  referred 
that  all  ideas  of  lending  an  artistic  significance  to  the 
sky-scraper  are  akin  to  such  stuff  as  dreams  are 
made  of.  After  all,  do  they  not  resolve  themselves 
into  a principle  which  would  transmogrify  the  sky- 
scraper into  something  else,  making  it  a hybrid  in- 
stead of  the  clean-cut  symbol  of  American  business 
life  that  it  can  be  made  so  long  as  the  architect  recog- 
nizes his  limitations  and  plays  the  game? 

Burnham  played  the  game.  That  is  what  made 
him  a conspicuous  and  valuable  figure  in  Ameri- 
can architecture.  All  that  despair  of  which  I have 
spoken  is  reserved  for  the  designer  who  will  not  look 
facts  in  the  face,  but  doggedly  goes  on  evading  them 
and  producing  sky-scrapers  which  are  impressive,  if 
at  all,  by  virtue  of  their  bulk  alone.  Burnham  went 
to  the  root  of  the  matter.  Perceiving  that  the  sky- 
scraper rests  upon  a principle  of  prosaic  simplicity, 
he  made  simplicity  the  keynote  of  his  work.  He 
made  no  effort  to  disguise  the  fact  that  such  a build- 
ing is  just  a succession  of  so  many  layers  of  cubicles, 
all  calling  for  light  and  air.  He  gave  those  cubicles 
the  value  belonging  to  them  in  the  composition,  only 
endeavoring,  as  he  multiplied  windows,  to  break  up 
their  monotony  by  the  most  judicious  means.  He 
was,  as  a rule,  sparing  of  decoration.  To  lighten 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  427 


the  appalling  masses  with  which  he  had  to  deal,  he 
looked  rather  to  modifications,  at  a few  points,  of  the 
broad  structural  lines.  Thus,  in  the  Railway  Ex- 
change at  Chicago,  a building  seventeen  stories  high 
on  a space  171  feet  square,  he  gained  relief  for  his 
facades,  and  a measure  of  light  and  shade,  by  throw- 
ing out  shallow  bays  at  regular  intervals,  and  carry- 
ing these  bays  from  the  third  floor  to  the  twelfth. 
Just  beneath  the  cornice  the  windows  were  made  cir- 
cular, and  the  surface  around  them  was  enriched  with 
sculptured  ornament.  Otherwise  the  building  is  as 
bald  as  the  pucking-cases  with  which  so  many  sky- 
scrapers have  been  compared,  and,  save  that  it  has 
a cornice  lacking  in  weight  and  that  the  entrances 
want  emphasis,  the  building  is  a success.  That  is, 
it  looks  like  an  office  building;  it  is  dignified  and  in 
good  taste.  Elsewhere  Burnham  used  with  admir- 
able effect  a system  of  classical  columns,  two  stories 
high,  at  the  bottom  of  his  building,  with  a similar 
system  of  columns  or  pilasters  supporting  arches  be- 
neath the  cornice.  The  First  National  Bank  and 
Commerical  National  Bank  Buildings  in  Chicago, 
the  Ford  Building  in  Detroit,  the  Frick  Building  in 
Pittsburg,  all  bear  witness  to  the  usefulness  of  this 
motive.  In  the  Frick  Building  still  further  variety 
is  gained  by  the  division  of  the  facades,  from  the  lower 
system  of  columns  to  the  upper  system,  into  arched 
sections,  the  arches  resting  on  long,  slender  piers. 
But  it  cannot  be  said  that  the  physiognomy  of  any 


428  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


one  of  Burnham’s  sky-scrapers  is  radically  differen- 
tiated from  that  of  another.  Every  one  of  them  is 
simplicity  itself.  Are  any  of  them  beautiful,  in  the 
strict  interpretation  of  the  word?  Hardly  that. 
Theirs  is  the  beauty  of  fitness.  They  are  beautiful  as 
a great  war-ship  is  beautiful.  If  they  have  a grace, 
it  is  the  grace  of  refinement,  but  that  is  all.  Now 
this  is  not  to  say  that  Burnham,  in  leaving  beauty  to 
take  care  of  itself,  left  out  something  without  which 
his  work  is  lifeless.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  to  say 
that  he  got  at  the  secret  of  his  problem  and  magni- 
ficently triumphed.  ' 

There  is  one  sky-scraper  of  his.  which,  more  than 
any  other,  has  provoked  discussion-— the  Fuller  Build- 
ing on  Madison  Square,  better  known  as  the  Flatiron. 
It  has  been  denounced  as  merely  hideous.  Some 
people  maintain  that  it  is  beautiful,  either  because 
they  like  to  entertain  views  which  they  are  pleased 
to  regard  as  original,  or  because  they  have  observed 
the  building  looming  in  the  fog,  late  on  a winter’s 
night,  with  lights  in  many  of  its  windows.  For  my 
own  part,  I believe  that  its  considerable  merit  lies 
in  nothing  more  nor  less  than  its  consummate  ex- 
ploitation of  the  eccentric  site  as  a business  invest- 
ment. Every  inch  of  the  space  available  is  put  to 
profitable  purpose.  Corridors,  elevators,  lavatories, 
and  staircases  are  concentrated  in  the  centre  of  the 
building,  with  the  result  that  every  office  has  an 
abundance  of  light  and  air.  As  for  the  facades,  they 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  429 


are  inferior  to  others  by  the  same  designer  chiefly 
because  their  surfaces  are  rather  more  freely  teased 
with  expedients  meant  to  secure  decorative  effect 
and  relief.  One  adverse  commentator  on  the  build- 
ing, criticising  it  at  the  time  of  its  completion,  neg- 
lected to  ascertain  the  name  of  its  designer,  and 
gravely  stated  in  print  that  the  misguided  man  might 
have  done  better  if  only  he  had  gone  to  sit  at  the  feet 
of  Burnham.  That  blunder  was  an  oblique  testimony 
to  the  fundamental  strength  of  Burnham’s  work. 
He  accustomed  his  critics  to  simplicity  and  mass. 
Striving,  for  once,  in  the  Flatiron,  for  an  impossible 
lightness,  he  gave  some  ground  for  the  assumption 
that  the  building  had  been  done  by  some  one  else. 
For  once  he  lost  his  hold  on  his  best  resource,  the 
resource  that  marks  him  as  so  much  an  American,  a 
masterly  kind  of  common  sense. 

Is  that  quality  incompatible  with  the  artistic 
sense?  Was  Burnham  any  less  the  artist  because  he 
designed  his  sky-scrapers  from  a rigidly  practical 
point  of  view?  The  best  answer  to  these  questions 
lies  in  the  record  of  his  work  on  great  civic  improve- 
ments. He  showed  something  of  what  he  could  do 
in  this  direction  in  1893,  when,  as  chief  architect  and 
director  for  the  World’s  Columbian  Exposition  at 
Chicago,  he  bore  a fruitful  part  in  that  extraordinary 
architectural  ensemble.  Later  he  was  identified  with 
various  public  schemes  of  importance.  He  was  made 
Chairman  of  the  National  Commission  established 


43©  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


for  beautifying  the  city  of  Washington,  and  he  served 
in  the  same  capacity  on  a similar  commission  formed 
in  Cleveland.  Chicago  and  San  Francisco  claimed 
his  ability  for  work  along  these  lines,  and  some  years 
ago  he  submitted  reports  to  the  Secretary  of  War  on 
proposed  improvements  in  Manila  and  Baguio,  in  the 
Philippines.  It  is  impossible  to  traverse  here  in  de- 
tail any  of  these  schemes,  but  that,  indeed,  is  not 
really  necessary.  The  important  tiling  is  the  general 
character  of  the  Inspiration  he  brought  to  his  gran- 
diose tasks.  His  first  thought,  after  looking  over  the 
ground,  was  for  the  every-day  necessities  of  the  city. 
His  report  on  the  Improvements  proposed  at  San 
Francisco,  before  the  earthquake,  accounted  for  pub- 
lic and  private  buildings,  looking  boldly  to  the  future, 
but  at  the  same  time  showing  a proper  solicitude  for 
the  situation  then  existing  and  the  adjustment  of  a 
policy  of  adaptation  and  slow  change  to  one  of  ulti- 
mate creation.  Beauty  was  sought — beauty  in  archi- 
tecture and  in  vistas;  but  convenience  was  constantly 
remembered,  as  was  so  unpoetic  a thing  as  sanita- 
tion. Turning  then  to  the  lovely  natural  surround- 
ings of  the  city,  Burnham  worked  out  a heroic  plan, 
contemplating  the  bringing  of  something  like  unity 
out  of  the  vast  area,  and  the  linking  of  the  city 
through  landscape-gardening,  monumental  terraces, 
and  so  on  with  the  wild  panorama  stretching  beyond 
its  limits. 

The  report  on  proposed  improvements  at  Washing- 


Leaders  in  American  Architecture  431 


ton  framed  by  Burnham  in  collaboration  with  his 
fellow-architect,  McKim,  the  sculptor,  Saint- Gaudens, 
and  the  landscape  architect,  Frederick  Law  Olmsted, 
Jr.,  makes,  with  its  maps,  diagrams,  plans,  and  other 
illustrations,  a stout  volume.  In  a nutshell,  it  ad- 
vocates the  extension  and  perfection  of  L’Enfant’s 
famous  plan,  and  the  creation  of  a symmetrical  whole, 
embracing  balanced  groups  of  public  buildings,  with 
parks,  monuments,  and  fountains  all  contributing  to 
one  superb  effect.  The  classical  motive  has  already 
been  fixed  at  Washington  as  the  one  which  should 
control,  and  how  well  Burnham  understood  this  is 
shown  by  the  Union  Station,  which  is  his  personal 
contribution  to  the  architectural  scheme.  But  what 
is  bound  especially  to  impress  the  reader  of  this  re- 
port is  the  deeper  and  broader  conception  it  reveals, 
a conception  transcending  that  of  architectural  style. 
The  point  to  the  whole  document  lies  in  its  presenta- 
tion of  a city  made  beautiful  not  only  with  builded 
stone  but  with  water,  earth,  and  sky.  A glorious 
avenue  of  trees  is  made  as  important  to  the  plan  as 
the  Capitol  itself.  The  object  aimed  at  is  not  a mu- 
seum of  monumental  buildings  for  the  architectural 
student,  but  a beautiful  city  for  men  to  live  in.  A 
passage  in  Burnham’s  report  on  improvements  sug- 
gested for  Manila  recommends  the  development  of  a 
certain  section  along  the  water-front  with  a view  to 
fostering  the  social  life  of  the  city;  and  in  a foot- 
note the  architect  says: 


432  Leaders  in  American  Architecture 


The  delightfulness  of  a city  is  an  element  of  first  im- 
portance to  its  prosperity,  for  those  who  make  fortunes 
will  stay  and  others  will  come  if  the  attractions  are  strong 
enough;  and  the  money  thus  kept  at  home,  added  to  that 
freely  spent  by  visitors,  will  be  enough  to  insure  continu- 
ous good  times.  The  aim  should  be  to  make  Manila 
really  “The  Pearl  of  the  Orient.” 

That  note  is  characteristic  of  Burnham,  character- 
istic in  its  feeling  for  things  “delightful,”  and  in  its 
sterling  common  sense.  Washington,  San  Francisco, 
Cleveland,  Chicago,  and  the  cities  of  the  Philippines 
will  be,  if  his  ideas  are  supported,  places  of  beauty. 
Also  they  will  be  healthful,  convenient  places,  good 
to  live  in.  It  is  a great  thing  that  the  artist  should 
dream  dreams,  but  it  is  equally  important  that  he 
should  know  and  sympathize  with  the  world  in  which 
he  lives.  Burnham’s  work,  whether  it  took  the  shape 
of  a sky-scraper  or  of  a city  clothed  in  new  beauty, 
was  first  and  last  a demonstration  of  this  truth. 

That  is  what  allies  him  to  Hunt  and  McKim,  and 
that  is  why  his  leadership,  like  theirs,  meant  progress 
where  Richardson’s  threatened  to  land  us  in  disaster. 
American  architecture  is  still  subject  to  insidiously 
harmful  conditions.  The  feverish  demands  of  fashion, 
for  example,  have  fostered  the  growth  of  parasitical 
talents,  undeniably  clever  but  too  often  content  to 
turn  a facade  into  an  article  de  Paris,  masking  an  in- 
terior all  finickin  luxury  and  decoration.  But  our 
school,  as  a school,  has  its  face  set  toward  the  light. 


J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector 


XIV 


J.  PIER  PONT  MORGAN  AS  A 
COLLECTOR 

In  his  r61e  of  collector  Mr.  Morgan  was  something 
of  a mystery  to  the  world  at  large.  Every  one  knew 
that  he  had  vast  artistic  possessions,  and  in  the  very 
nature  of  things  it  was  inevitable  that  a wide  pub- 
licity should  have  followed  many  of  his  transactions. 
The  cables  were  always  busy  with  his  campaigns 
among  the  purchasable  art  treasures  of  Europe. 
Some  one  was  always  sure  to  let  us  know  what  they 
had  cost  him.  But  it  was  never  Mr.  Morgan  who 
had  anything  to  say  on  these  subjects,  and  his  friends, 
if  they  happened  to  be  in  the  secret  of  any  of  his 
doings,  were  wont  to  respect  his  reticent  habit. 
Others  who  were  in  a position  to  talk  about  his  pol- 
icy as  a collector,  if  I may  so  describe  it,  were  taught 
to  keep  their  own  counsel.  There  is  a pretty  legend 
of  one  agent  whose  loquacity  was  summarily  quenched 
by  a telegram  more  picturesquely  terse  than  polite. 
The  upshot  of  all  this  was  that  the  personality  of 
J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a collector  remained  practi- 
cally unknown,  and  I make  no  pretence  of  giving  a 
full  and  conclusive  account  of  it.  The  precise  range 

435 


436  J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector 


and  significance  of  his  different  tastes  could  only  be 
set  forth  by  one  of  his  intimates  and  advisers,  like 
Mr.  Fitz-Henry,  who,  by  a pathetic  coincidence  died 
but  a very  short  time  before  the  decease  of  his  old 
friend.  But  no  one  could  play  the  part  that  Mr. 
Morgan  played  in  the  accumulation  of  works  of  art 
without  exposing  here  and  there  some  of  his  methods, 
and  the  mere  results  of  these  throw  a certain  light  on 
the  subject. 

In  one  important  point  the  commentators  who  have 
been  busy  since  Mr.  Morgan’s  death  have  done  him 
a little  less  than  justice,  not  so  much  through  what 
they  have  said  as  through  what  they  have,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  implied.  Everywhere  it  has  been  re- 
marked that  he  was  not  a connoisseur  in  the  strict 
sense,  not  one  of  those  collectors  who  put  a personal 
stamp  upon  their  collections.  Dr.  Bode  published 
in  Berlin  an  article  full  of  appreciation  but  decisive  in 
its  assertion  that  Mr.  Morgan  was  not  an  expert. 
Now,  while  these  statements  are  doubtless  to 
be  accepted  as  true,  it  is  perhaps  as  well  to 
remind  the  layman  that  they  do  not  denote  any 
singularity  in  the  man  to  whom  they  refer.  As  a 
collector  Mr.  Morgan  was,  indeed,  fully  represent- 
ative of  his  time,  at  least  in  the  United  States. 
Very  few  of  our  best-known  collectors  have  been 
connoisseurs  and  experts.  Quite  as  much  as  Mr. 
Morgan  they  have  profited  by  the  aid  of  dealers  and 
other  counsellors.  An  amateur  like  Mr.  John  G. 


J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector  437 


Johnson,  of  Philadelphia,  who  not  only  knows  what 
he  likes  but  knows  why  he  likes  it,  and  pursues  an 
essentially  independent  path,  is  the  rarest  of  types, 
here  or  abroad.  Most  observers  of  artistic  affairs 
are  aware  of  this  fact,  but  in  print  and  in  conversa- 
tion I have  often  noted  a disposition  to' place  an  em- 
phasis upon  Mr.  Morgan’s  want  of  special  knowledge 
which  has  seemed  just  a shade  unfair.  If  he  con- 
fided in  others  he  did  not,  at  any  rate,  do  so  any 
more  than  dozens  of  his  contemporaries,  whose  com- 
parative freedom  from  the  same  criticism  constitutes 
half  my  poini.  And,  it  may  be  added,  he  knew  where 
to  get  good  advice,  and,  having  got  it,  followed  it. 
Furthermore,  there  could  be  no  question  of  his  en- 
joyment of  the  things  which  he  thus  procured. 

Some  years  ago,  in  the  house  at  Prince’s  Gate,  so 
richly  stored  with  masterpieces,  I had  an  opportu- 
nity to  witness  the  disclosure  of  both  these  traits. 
A representative  of  one  of  the  dealers  turned  up, 
bringing  a parcel  which  contained  a rare  old  French 
enamel.  Mr.  Morgan  silently  watched  the  man  as  he 
unwrapped  the  precious  object,  looked  it  over  sym- 
pathetically and  then  ordered  it  wrapped  up  again. 
He  made  no  comment  revealing  what  he  thought, 
but  simply  asked  the  messenger  why  he  had  brought 
the  enamel  to  his  house.  On  being  told  that  it  was 
offered  to  him  for  purchase  he  said  that  the  dealer 
sending  it  must  have  known  perfectly  well  that  he 
wished  things  of  the  kind  submitted  to  So-and-So 


438  J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector 


and  So-and-So,  naming  two  recognized  experts,  one  of 
them  an  official  in  the  British  Museum.  Dismissing 
the  matter  in  this  way,  he  turned  to  his  visitor  for  a 
stroll  among  the  pictures.  Thereupon  the  curt,  busi- 
nesslike tone  disappeared,  giving  place  to  one  of  sheer 
pleasure  in  the  things  around  him.  From  time  to 
time  he  would  be  called  away,  but  in  a few  moments 
he  would  be  back  again,  evidently  forgetful  in  a trice 
of  practical  affairs  and  quietly  happy  with  his  works 
of  art.  It  was  interesting  to  note,  by  the  way,  that 
while  his  remarks  on  one  painting  or  another  revealed 
no  predilection  for  any  particular  school,  a peculiar 
enthusiasm  did  seem  to  awaken  in  him  when  he  sat 
down  to  the  miniatures  and  fairly  beamed  over  their 
beauties.  Merely  from  the  way  in  which  he  handled 
them  it  was  plain  that  they  had  a favored  place  in 
his  heart.  Mr.  Fitz-Henry  was  there,  and  they  talked 
about  the  little  portraits,  recalling  how  one  or  another 
of  them  had  been  secured.  Later,  too,  it  developed 
that  where  miniatures  were  concerned  he  would  some- 
times range,  regardless  of  the  expert,  and  come  home 
to  take  a gem  or  two  out  of  his  pocket  and  smilingly 
add  it  to  the  collection.  There,  in  one  field  of  art, 
at  all  events,  he  suggested  a very  personal  ardor. 

In  the  main,  however,  he  would  seem  to  have 
brought  to  his  dealings  with  the  world  of  art  much 
the  same  temper  and  swift  organizing  authority  which 
characterized  his  work  in  finance.  It  was  like  him  to 
buy  whole  collections  at  a stroke  when  once  he  had 


J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector  439 


satisfied  himself  that  they  were  worth  buying.  Inci- 
dentally, it  might  be  pointed  out  that  there  is  noth- 
ing intrinsically  to  be  deprecated  in  this  practice. 
Probably  he  would  have  bought  the  objects  contained 
in  these  collections  piece  by  piece  if  they  had  been 
brought  in  that  way  to  his  attention.  As  it  hap- 
pened, he  had  the  money  to  buy  a mass  of  treasure 
at  a time  when  it  offered,  and,  besides  this,  one  does 
not  need  to  be  very  imaginative  in  order  to  see  that 
for  a man  devoting  himself  to  this  hobby  so  late  in 
life  purchases  of  extraordinary  magnitude  were  really 
necessary.  It  is  said  that  he  was  a collector,  after 
his  fashion,  from  his  young  manhood  if  not  from  his 
youth,  but  during  most  of  his  career  he  was  a busy 
banker.  If,  as  we  seem  justified  in  assuming,  he 
fostered  in  his  later  years  the  idea  of  rendering  a great 
artistic  service  to  his  countrymen,  there  can  be  no 
question  of  his  having  gone  the  right  way  about  it 
when  he  turned  the  market  upside  down  and  bought 
collections  as  he  bought  steel  plants  or  shipping  lines. 
There  is  a touch  of  cant  in  the  disparagement  of  his 
exercise  of  what  has  been  called  the  brute  power  of 
the  purse.  Every  successful  bidder  in  the  auction- 
room,  whether  his  prize  be  valued  in  the  hundreds 
or  in  the  thousands,  uses  that  power.  And  if  it  is 
any  consolation  to  the  wiseacres  who  shake  their 
heads  over  his  “ruthlessness”  it  may  be  recorded 
that  he  did  not  always  get  what  he  wanted. 

One  of  the  most  amusing  of  the  stories  that  have 


440  J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector 


been  told  about  him  relates  to  a glorious  masterpiece 
of  the  eighteenth-century  French  school  which  was 
on  view  one  beautiful  spring  day  in  the  gallery  of  a 
Parisian  dealer.  Mr.  Morgan  came  in,  saw  it,  liked 
it,  but  not  being  in  a very  talkative  mood  went  away 
without  saying  anything  save  that  he  would  be  in 
again  with  a friend.  He  had  scarcely  disappeared 
when  a wealthy  French  collector  visited  the  place, 
fell  in  love  with  the  picture,  paid  for  it  then  and 
there  and  took  it  away  with  him  in  a cab.  The  next 
morning  Mr.  Morgan  returned,  this  time  bringing 
his  friend,  and  said:  “I  want  to  see  my  picture.” 
According  to  the  story,  when  the  cruel  facts  had  been 
laid  before  him,  it  took  some  time  to  appease  his  be- 
wildered wrath.  Apropos  of  this  episode  with  one 
dealer,  it  may  safely  be  surmised  that  members  of 
the  fraternity  could  report  many  others.  All  over 
Europe  they  knew  him,  and,  as  was  shown  by  the 
crowds  of  people  with  things  to  sell  besieging  him  at 
his  hotel  in  Rome  as  he  lay  dying,  all  manner  of  com- 
mercial hopes  and  fears  revolved  around  him.  The 
few  firms  that  especially  catered  to  him  and  satisfied 
him  could  not  keep  a multitude  of  venders  from  try- 
ing their  luck.  The  humors  of  the  fray  must  some- 
times have  been  exquisite.  Were  there  also  less  en- 
gaging developments?  Are  there  many  works  of  art 
in  Mr.  Morgan’s  immense  collection  which  are  not 
quite  what  they  pretend  to  be?  For  my  own  part  I 
doubt  if  there  are  any  at  all,  and  this  for  two  rea- 


J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector  441 


sons.  In  the  first  place,  as  I have  indicated  above, 
he  was  an  incessant  seeker  after  expert  advice. 
Secondly,  it  is  hard  to  see  why  anybody  who  had  his 
own  interest  to  serve  should  have  tried  to  swindle 
the  one  man  who,  more  than  any  other,  was  buying 
all  kinds  of  works  of  art  and  generously  paying  for 
them.  That  dealer  would  have  needed  to  be  a fear- 
ful fool  who  was  willing  to  carry  frauds  to  a collector 
whose  counsellors  could  so  quickly  set  him  right  and 
whose  insistence  upon  honesty  would  thenceforth 
have  made  further  profitable  transactions  flatly  im- 
possible. The  very  scope  of  Mr.  Morgan’s  artistic 
operations  protected  him  against  deception.  In  this 
matter  he  carried,  as  it  were,  his  own  insurance.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  is  probably  true  that  extravagant 
prices  were  inseparable  from  his  mode  of  procedure. 
He  had  to  pay  the  penalty  of  his  renown  as  a buyer 
and  of  his  haste.  The  same  collection,  slowly  formed 
during  a long  lifetime,  by  a bargainer  saturated  in 
the  lore  of  his  subjects,  would  no  doubt  have  cost 
but  half  of  what  Mr.  Morgan  paid  for  it,  if  it  had  cost 
that  much. 

What,  when  all  is  said,  remains  salient  and  most 
characteristic  when  we  consider  the  presumable  re- 
action upon  Mr.  Morgan  of  the  prodigious  adventures 
which  he  crowded  within  a few  short  years  of  collect- 
ing? Can  we,  from  the  wilderness  of  objects  he  as- 
sembled, divine  some  one  prevailing  note  of  taste? 
The  question  seems  almost  unanswerable  in  view  of 


442  j.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector 


the  portentous  variety  of  his  possessions.  In  that 
London  house  where  we  have  seen  him  delighting  in 
his  miniatures  there  hung  his  numerous  and  beauti- 
ful portraits  of  the  English  school,  and  in  other  rooms 
there  were  Dutch  and  Spanish  masterpieces.  One 
room  was  dedicated  by  itself  to  that  celebrated  and 
enchanting  set  of  decorative  panels  which  Fragonard 
painted  in  his  safe  retirement  at  Grasse  while  the 
Terror  raged  in  Paris.  The  series  was  marvellously 
installed  in  its  twentieth-century  home  amid  the 
London  fogs.  Everything,  the  walls  and  woodwork, 
the  mantel-piece  with  its  appropriate  eighteenth-cen- 
tury statuettes,  the  glass-covered  tables  full  of  minia- 
tures and  snuff-boxes,  the  chairs,  and  the  very  carpet 
on  the  floor,  had  been  so  chosen  that  Fragonard  and 
the  Du  Barry  herself  would  have  wept  for  joy  if  they 
could  have  seen  the  perfection  of  the  ensemble.  Only 
a collector  definitely  in  love  with  the  school  and  the 
period,  one  would  have  said,  could  have  achieved 
that  beautiful  harmony.  But  was  Mr.  Morgan  in 
love  with  it?  I do  not  know.  If  he  could  have  a 
cult  for  Fragonard,  so  likewise  could  he  have  a cult 
for  Holbein,  for  Oriental  porcelains,  for  Italian  bronzes 
and  other  sculptures,  for  old  watches  of  every  age 
and  country,  for  rare  books  and  manuscripts,  for  so 
many  things,  in  short,  that  it:  is  idle  even  to  attempt 
the  most  summary  of  lists.  And  yet  I would  hazard 
the  speculation  that  there  was  one  sphere  in  which 
his  mind  received  a notable  and  perhaps  predomi- 


J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector  443 


nant  stimulus.  It  was  that  of  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance. 

The  many  roads  he  traversed  on  his  annual  Euro- 
pean journeys  sooner  or  later  all  led  to  Rome.  Ital- 
ian art  is  forever  cropping  out  in  his  collection.  He 
obtained  an  amazing  body  of  Renaissance  bronzes 
and  marbles;  his  collection  of  drawings  includes  many 
fine  Italian  examples,  and  he  secured  a number  of 
Italian  paintings,  among  which  I must  particularly 
mention  the  fascinating  portrait  of  Giovanna  degli 
Albizzi,  by  Ghirlandajo,  which  he  got  out  of  the 
Rodolphe  Kann  collection.  But  most  significant  of 
all  was  the  atmosphere  in  which  he  chose  to  be  en- 
veloped in  that  building  next  door  to  his  New  York 
home  which  was  designed  as  a library  by  the  late 
Charles  F.  McKim.  He  gave  that  great  architect 
a free  hand.  All  that  he  asked  for  was  a consum- 
mate work  of  art.  McKim  gave  it  to  him  in  the  shape 
of  a flawless  little  Renaissance  palazzo.  Exquisite 
in  its  simplicity  and  in  the  balance  of  its  proportions, 
it  was  planned  with  an  ideal  of  both  structural  and 
decorative  unity.  It  has  been  complained  of  Mr. 
Morgan  that  he  did  not  buy  modern  American  pic- 
tures. In  this  library  he  found  room  for  no  Ameri- 
can decorations.  Naturally,  neither  he  ncr  McKim 
dreamed  of  bringing  an  incongruous  note  into  the 
scheme.  They  turned,  instead,  to  the  style  of  Pin- 
tori  cchio,  the  one  master  of  the  Renaissance  who  was 
bound  to  come  to  mind.  Plis  inspiration  had  been 


444  J-  Pierponi  Morgan  as  a Collector 


caught  by  Mr.  H.  Siddons  Mowbray  when  he  was  dec- 
orating the  beautiful  library  of  the  University  Club 
for  McKim,  and  Mr.  Morgan,  mounting  to  the  scaf- 
folds there,  saw  how  well  the  American  artist  was 
equipped  to  do  just  what  he  wanted.  Whereupon 
Mr.  Mowbray  and  Mr.  J.  W.  Finn  tackled  the  ceil- 
ing in  the  collector’s  library  and  felicitously  rounded 
out  McKim’s  Italianate  conception.  It  was  unques- 
tionably the  genius  of  McKim  that  was  thus  ex- 
pressed, but  there,  too,  I believe,  Mr.  Morgan’s  taste 
“found”  itself.  He  had  shown  his  feeling  for  Italy 
in  divers  ways.  He  had  been  one  of  the  keenest 
supporters  of  that  American  academy  at  Rome  which 
McKim  had  cherished  as  his  dearest  dream  and  had 
worked  for  with  infectious  zeal.  When  he  had  at 
last  made  for  himself  the  space  of  quietude  and 
beauty  that  he  wanted  among  his  books  it  was  one 
expressive  in  its  every  detail  of  the  spirit  of  the 
Renaissance.  Surely  this  could  not  have  been  due 
to  any  accident  of  circumstance.  The  whole  artistic 
character  of  the  library  must  have  had  its  origin  in 
a strong  predilection. 

The  full  tale  of  his  energies  as  a collector  will  not 
for  some  time  be  known.  The  treasures  on  which 
he  spent  sixty  million  dollars  or  more  are  so  numer- 
ous that  when  ultimately  they  are  concentrated  in 
one  place  they  will  make  by  themselves  one  of  the 
notable  museums  in  the  world.  Whatever  that  mu- 
seum may  express  in  revelation  of  Mr.  Morgan’s 


J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  a Collector  445 


make-up  as  a collector,  the  one  outstanding  fact  to 
which  it  will  always  clearly  point  is  his  public  gener- 
osity. First  and  last,  he  was  extraordinarily  gener- 
ous with  his  works  of  art,  lending  them  for  public 
exhibition,  and  sometimes  for  long  periods,  both  in 
New  York  and  abroad.  The  great  Hoentschel  col- 
lection of  decorative  art,  which  has  a whole  wing  to 
itself,  and  the  grand  array  of  the  Garland  porcelains 
would  alone  rank  him  as  a memorable  benefactor 
of  the  Metropolitan  Museum.  But  as  you  go  through 
that  institution  there  is  scarce  any  department  in 
which  you  will  not,  over  and  over  again,  come  upon 
the  label  signifying  that  the  object  bearing  it  was 
given  or  lent  by  Mr.  Morgan.  And  the  help  which  he 
thus  rendered  at  home  he  rendered  not  infrequently 
to  foreign  museums.  If  he  knew  how  to  acquire  he 
knew  also  how  to  give.  That  is  the  fine  thought 
which  is  bound  to  dwell  with  us  as  we  reflect  on  the 
life  of  J.  Pierpont  Morgan  as  an  art-collector.  He 
spent  a lot  of  money  in  the  world  of  precious  rarities, 
and  he  had  his  own  way.  In  the  long  run  what  he 
did  has  worked,  as  all  the  time  he  would  seem  to  have 
meant  it  to  work,  for  the  benefit  of  his  countrymen. 


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